


Beyond The Treeline

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Child Acquisition, Crack Treated Seriously, Cryptid!Geralt, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Modern AU, Monsters, Mutual Pining, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Walmart, Works At Denny's!Jaskier, geralt is just a straight-up cryptid, jaskier is a descendant from polish immigrants, monster son is matchmaker for single dad and local cryptid, nan is a consistent character, rock collecting, she the best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: Jaskier's nan has always warned him about the creatures that reside just beyond the treeline - when he grew up, the tales seemed less and less real, more myths and legends than the honest truth. That was, until he started working the night shift at the Denny's in the middle of the woods, and he met a certain Witcher.Everything takes a turn for the weirder when he manages to accidentally adopt a Ghoul. Just his luck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 270
Kudos: 533
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Feel The Ocean As It Breathes

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally posted on tumblr, but I figured y'all might like it as well, so here it is. I got the idea from [this post](https://jerry-of-rivia.tumblr.com/post/619748213643198464/i-happened-to-be-looking-forlistening-to-a-bunch), which has very good artwork so please give the artist some support
> 
> You can (of course) find me on tumblr, @queen-squish.  
> And I think that's all I have to say for now I guess?  
> Also chapter titles from Empire by Of Monsters And Men
> 
> Also please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment, they fuel me So Much.

He sighs as he wipes down the table, damp rag working the surface methodically, cleaning every grease-stain and grain of salt away, leaving only dampness behind. 

It’s a quiet night, as usual, in the middle of Fuck-All-Nowhere, Pennsylvania. He still doesn’t know why Denny’s decided to plant a restaurant here, in the quiet hills, a few miles away from the highway, but hell, he needed the money, and the job had very few requirements, so here he is.

Wiping down tables in an empty diner in the middle of the fucking night. 

He shakes his shoulder, rolling his head from side to side to relieve the tenseness in his muscles. It doesn’t go away, and he knows it has nothing to do with the long shift or having to stand on his feet for hours on end - it has everything to do with the massive fucking windows and the forest that surrounds the diner.

The fluorescents of the building shine through the large windows, illuminating the darkness of the night a few yards from the walls of the Denny’s. He can see the two-lane road, and the small parking lot, and if he squints, he can see a bit past the treeline of the forest.

But that’s the thing - he’s not sure if he wants to be able to see the woods and what lies within. 

He’s heard stories from his nan, of course - everyone has. About the monsters that go bump in the night, about the people who go into the forest, never to be seen again, about the awful, inhuman screams that ring through the woods at night. Kikimoras, wraiths, ghouls, succubi, drowners, and so on and on and on and on - all stories that instilled a deep, primal fear in him as a kid, making sure he never dared go outside the confinements of his bedroom at night.

But things changed. He grew up, became more daring, more bold, more disregarding of the stupid, old tales his now senile nan told him, so many years ago. Really, it’s the 21st century, who the hell even believes in _ghouls,_ and _succubi_ and all those stupid creatures people made up so long ago?

At least, that’s what he used to think. Before he started taking night shifts at the Denny’s in the middle of the woods. These days, he can’t help but look over his shoulder, as his back is turned to the windows, can’t help but jump at every little sound, nerves on end, can’t help but avoid staring too deep into the darkness. Can’t help but feel watched.

There’s still one other story his nan told him, all those years ago - one that’s equally as fear-inducing as calming. 

He looks up as the bell rings, and two teenagers walk in. They’ve got harnesses on, cameras strapped to their chest, audio recorders and flashlights on their shoulders. He sighs, nodding at them with a polite but forced smile as they sit down at one of the tables, chatting loudly.

“Yeah, dude, I swear, one guy saw it, like, a few miles from here, we have to check it out-”

“But you’re sure he wasn’t smoking?”

“Yeah, absolutely! This guy is legit, I’m telling you, we’re so gonna catch it on film tonight, dude. We’re gonna be so fucking famous-”

Jaskier walks over to them, notepad in hand. “What can I help you two with tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, can we get two cokes and some pancakes, please?”

“Sure thing, will that be all?”

“You work here every night?”

Jaskier sighs, closing his notepad, putting his hand on his hip. He knows what they’re gonna ask, knows what they’re doing out here in the middle of the night. “Most nights, yeah. Why?” He asks anyways, just to entertain them a bit - after all, it’s just a good video these guys want, something post-worthy that might get them trending.

“You ever see anything… unusual?”

Most ‘paranormal investigators’ just straight-up ask him if he’s seen any monsters or ghosts, but it looks like these guys genuinely think they’re being professionals or some shit.

He sighs, bored. “No. Not a thing. Haven’t heard anything, haven’t seen anything, haven’t felt anything.”

One of the guys squints at him suspiciously. “You had your answer ready.”

“Because you’re not the first to ask. I get guys like you in here every other week. Now, you need anything else, or can I get started on your order?”

The two teens exchange a disappointed glance. “No, it’s cool, thanks, man,” one says, and stands up. “Just leave the order as well, actually. We gotta get going.”

Jaskier sighs again, rolling his eyes as he rips the page from the notebook, scrunching it up in his hand. “Alright. Whatever. Watch where you put your feet, out there, the hills can be slippery this time of year.”

The two teens nod at him, then head out. 

Jaskier sighs again, throwing the rejected order in the trash. He glances at the clock. Nearly three in the morning. He should get started.

He bakes five strips of bacon - six is too many, four not enough - along with two eggs. Sunny side up - that’s how _he_ prefers it. He loads it onto a plate with a piece of toast, before taking another plate, stacking it with three pancakes - exactly three - pouring just a bit of maple syrup over it. _He_ doesn’t like things too sweet, which Jaskier’s always found a bit odd - personally, he has a bit of a sweet tooth - but to each their own, he guesses.

Then, he fills a pitcher with iced tea, adds in a few cubes of ice and a lemon slice, taking a glass from the shelf.

He takes the plates, the pitcher, and the glass in his arms, putting them down on the table in the corner, the one that’s next to a wall instead of a window, and has a perfect view of the rest of the diner and the surrounding woods - personally, his least favourite table, but _he_ prefers that one. To each their own, once again.

When he’s done, he stands behind the bar, dusting off some of the glasses that have barely been used in months - which is most of them, really. Because no one goes to a fucking Denny’s in the middle of Fuck-All-Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Well, except for the regular paranormal investigators, and-

He looks at the clock. Fifteen minutes past three. He looks back down, frowning at the glass in his hands. The door opens, and he hears the bell ring, and though he doesn’t look up, the frown on his face relaxes. “You’re late.”

Deafening silence, except for heavy footfalls across the tiles, to the table in the corner. Jaskier smiles at the familiar tacitude. “I was starting to get worried about you.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, there are some kids out there, looking for monsters. They seemed inexperienced. I think you might have to keep an eye on them, tonight, make sure nothing kills them.”

“Hmm.”

He finally looks to his left, watching as the white-haired figure dressed in black eats, finishing his plate within minutes. He’s always had quite an appetite, ever since Jaskier first met him, a year or so ago, on a night very much like this one, at three in the morning. He always shows up at three in the morning.

Still, despite the appetite, the white-haired one never wants more than five pieces of bacon, two eggs, sunny side up, a piece of toast, three pancakes, and a pitcher of iced tea. Jaskier watches now as he finishes the iced tea in mere minutes - he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of watching him eat.

Though, he averts his gaze, when that head of white hair slightly turns towards Jaskier - a warning, he doesn’t like being watched. Jaskier suspects he might be a bit self-conscious, but he’s never dared ask.

And even if he were to ask - the white-haired one rarely ever replies, and only with ‘hmm’, most of the time.

The white-haired one now stands up, walking towards the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He half turns back to Jaskier, who can barely make out a nod, through the swords strapped to that broad back. Jaskier nods back, giving the white-haired one a half-smile, before he moves to clear the plates.

The bell rings again as the door closes.

As Jaskier’s loading the dishes and the pitcher into his arms, he looks up one last time, barely making out the figure at the edge of the forest, though amber eyes shine at him brightly, unnaturally, in the fluorescent lights of the Denny’s. Then, the figure turns around, disappearing into the night.

An inhuman shriek rings out through the woods. But Jaskier’s no longer scared.

Because, for all the stories of ghouls and succubi and kikimoras his nan told him, she also told him the tales of the white-haired one. Of he who roams the woods, clad in black, two silver swords strapped to his back. 

_He’s older than the town, Julek,_ she used to tell him, _he’s the one that chases the monsters away, he’s the one that protects us. Do not ever go out into the woods at night, Julek. But if you do, if you happen to find yourself alone and trapped and lost, he’ll watch over you. He’ll protect you. He’ll keep you safe._

 _Who, nana?_ He had always asked, though he’d known the answer.

She had always laughed at him, cradling his cheek in one of her wrinkled, soft hands, as she brought him a bit closer, smiling conspiratorially at him, as if she was about to tell him this town’s biggest secret. In a way, she was.

_The Witcher, Julek._


	2. Shivering Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter right away, because I already posted this on my tumblr @queen-squish a few days ago.
> 
> Again! Please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

On Sundays, the Denny’s closes at 2 in the morning. It’s become his least favourite day of the week, since it means he has to drive home through the woods in the middle of the night - and he of all people knows what things reside beyond the treeline. 

He knows the white-haired one is there to protect him, there to keep him safe, as he turns off the interior lights of the Denny’s, back turned to the dark woods as he locks the door. He knows the stories his nan told him, he knows the sight of those amber eyes eerily reflecting the fluorescents, he knows the sound of an inhuman scream as it’s cut off abruptly. 

He knows the Witcher will protect him, if he has the chance.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? - he thinks to himself, as he nervously glances around, half-jogging the short distance from the front door of the Denny’s to his car. The white-haired one will protect him, _if he has the chance._ But lord knows how many creatures reside in these woods, lord knows how many other people need the Witcher’s aid right now.

He can’t always be around, he can’t always keep Jaskier safe.

He sighs in relief as he slams the car door shut, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other fumbling for his keys. Of course, he still glances around from time to time - after all, the thin layer of aluminium and plastic between him and the outside world isn’t enough to put his mind at ease.

He finally finds his key, jamming it into the ignition, turning it. He can’t wait to get out of here, get home.

The car splutters a few times, then falls still. _Shit._ He turns the key again, to no avail. The engine tries to start, then fails. He tries again. And again. And again. Still nothing. _Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit._

He swallows thickly, both hands clenched around the steering wheel now, as he looks through the windshield at the dark Denny’s, wide-eyed. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening.

He’s stranded. In the middle of the Pennsylvanian woods.

He contemplates going back into the Denny’s, spending the night there, but it’s gonna take a while for the next shift to come in - around 10 in the morning, meaning he’d have to wait about 8 hours for help to arrive. 

He takes his phone out of his pocket, eyes hurting a bit at the bright light as he unlocks it. He already knows, but he checks anyways. Indeed - no signal. There’s never a fucking signal out here.

He sighs again, as he glances in the rearview mirror, luckily seeing nothing but darkness. Now what? He tries to start his car again, to no avail.

 _Do not ever go out into the woods at night, Julek -_ his nan’s voice rings through his head, as if she’s sitting right next to him instead of sleeping peacefully at the nursing home.

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to leave the relative safety of his car, doesn’t want to lose the last resort that is the Denny’s. But it’s either this, or sleeping in the diner, with its semicircle of windows looking down on him, or spending the night in his nonfunctioning car, behind a thin layer of aluminium and plastic.

 _Do not ever go out into the woods at night, Julek._ He takes the key out of the ignition, swinging the car door open. _But if you do -_ his sneakers hit the concrete, and he closes the car door as quietly as possible - _if you happen to find yourself alone -_ he locks the car, though he doesn’t expect anyone to steal it - _and trapped -_ he takes a deep breath, as he stuffs the key between his fingers; it’s but a meagre defence against the horrors that reside in the woods - _and lost -_ he sets out, walking across the small parking lot to the two-lane road that leads back to town - _he’ll watch over you._

Even though he’s not so sure if the white-haired one has time to watch over him, his nan’s words, spoken so many long years ago, still manage to calm him down. 

He stops in the middle of the road, looking at his broken car and the familiar outside lights of the Denny’s one last time, before he starts walking. He hugs himself, key still clasped between the fingers of his right hand. It’s cold tonight, but that’s to be expected, since it’s autumn. He’s not dressed for the weather - after all, he thought he’d be able to drive home in his heated car after work, he hadn’t anticipated this. Cold creeps into his bones, and he rubs his upper arms, shoulders pulled up to his ears.

He walks as fast as he can without breaking out into a run, his shallow and quick breath fogging in front of his face as his fingers and toes slowly grow numb. It’s a long way home, he knows, but anything beats having to wait eight hours for help to arrive.

After half an hour or so of walking, he hears a twig snap in the woods. His head whips to the side, and he stills, for half a second, staring into the darkness, wide-eyed, before he starts walking briskly again, fingers clenching painfully around his upper arms as his heartbeat pounds in his throat.

Okay, maybe he should’ve spent the night at the Denny’s.

“Don’t look, Jaskier,” he whispers to himself, as he keeps his eyes trained on the road a few feet in front of him, “don’t look.”

Another twig snaps, and this time he can hear an unmistakably inhuman growl, to his right, a little behind him. His muscles freeze in fear, as adrenaline screams through his veins, his breath catching in his throat. _Don’t look don’t look don’t look._

He turns his head, and looks. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something sneaking towards him. He can’t really tell, but it almost looks like a dog, except bigger. Much, much bigger. It radiates a faint light, that casts shadows on the asphalt as it approaches Jaskier, fangs bared, snarling.

He swallows thickly. A barghest. His nan told him about this creature - though her cautionary tales are no longer of any use now, and he supposes it doesn’t really matter if he knows what monster it is or not. He’s going to get ripped to shreds either way.

He knows he should run - though he can’t outrun the barghest - knows he should at least _try_ , but his muscles remain frozen in unbridled terror. He can’t move an inch, can only look out of the corner of his eye as his impending death approaches.

 _This is it._ He thinks, as the barghest growls at him. _I’d say it’s been a good life, but really, I’ve accomplished fucking nothing._

_I should’ve stayed at the Denny’s._

Silver flashes in the faint glow of the specter, and he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the final blow, for the pain in his neck as teeth clamp around it. 

Except it doesn’t come. All that reaches him is a high-pitched whine, and complete silence afterwards.

Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes. The barghest is gone, the only light coming from the streetlamps that line the asphalt. In the monster’s place, sword in hand, clad in black, stands the white-haired one.

 _Do not ever go out into the woods at night, Julek._ He breathes a sigh of relief. _But if you do -_ his muscles suddenly unfreeze, and he finds his knees unstable, buckling under the weight of the world and his miserable life that suddenly rests on his shoulders, cracking as they hit the asphalt - _if you find yourself alone and trapped and lost -_ he buries his face in his trembling hands, a dry sob wracking through his chest - _he’ll watch over you._

He sees knees clad in black on the asphalt in front of him, feels a heavy, warm hand on his shoulder. _He’ll protect you._

 _“_ Are you alright?” The voice is surprisingly deep, and Jaskier startles a bit at the words - after all, he’s never been able to get more than a curt nod and a ‘hmm’ out of the Witcher, in the year that he’s been serving him food almost every night.

He nods, shakily, and the hand around his shoulder tightens. He wipes at the tears that stream down his cheeks - though he hadn’t noticed that he’d started crying - and almost takes out his eye with the key that’s still clutched between his fingers. 

The Witcher’s other hand slowly takes his, strong fingers softly extracting the key from his grip. There’s a painful red spot on his palm that will certainly turn into a bruise, come the morning, and the skin between his index finger and middle finger has been broken by the jagged edges of the metal. 

The strong hand slips the key into the pocket of his thin coat. He looks up, sight slightly blurry through the tears. For the first time in a year, he notices that the white-haired one has a dimple in his chin, and Jaskier would never admit it out loud, but it looks very cute.

Finally, he meets blazing, amber eyes, as they study his face intently. “Thank you,” he whispers.

The Witcher nods at him, and Jaskier almost laughs at the familiarity of the gesture. “Thank you,” he repeats. Then, whispered, once again: “thank you,” as the weight of the situation finally hits him. If the white-haired one hadn’t been there, Jaskier surely would’ve been dead. He surely would’ve bled out in the middle of the road in Fuck-All-Nowhere, Pennsylvania. He probably would’ve been lying there for hours, dead, before he would’ve been found.

He owes the Witcher his life.

“How can I ever repay you?”

The white-haired one shakes his head. “I’m repaying _you_.”

Jaskier frowns, then laughs incredulously. “For the food?”

The Witcher clenches his jaw, and Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he wants to say something, but is holding himself back. “Yes.” He knows the white-haired one is lying. He doesn’t mention it.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

“Hmm.” The white-haired one presses his lips together, amber eyes studying Jaskier’s face, heavy hand still on his shoulder, the other one resting on a broad thigh. “Geralt.”

Jaskier smiles, a light feeling in his veins and in his head, that he supposes can only be found after a near-death experience. “Well, nice to properly meet you, Geralt. And… thank you.”

The white-haired one- _Geralt_ nods curtly, the corners of his lips tugging upwards ever so slightly, before he gets up, stalking into the woods. 

Jaskier stays on his knees in the middle of the road a little while longer, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down, for the trembling of his hands to stop. Finally, he pushes himself up, taking a few steps with shaky legs. 

He pauses, the feeling of being watched creeping up his spine. He turns half around, and sees a pair of amber eyes in the woods, reflecting the light of the streetlamps unnaturally, almost eerily. He waits for the Witcher to turn around, for the amber eyes to disappear, as they always do.

But they don’t.

They keep looking at him. “Okay,” he whispers to himself, as he turns back around, “okay.” He continues walking, legs growing more certain with every step. He still feels like he’s being watched - he _knows_ he is - but the feeling is no longer uncomfortable. It soothes him, instead, warming his muscles, as if he’s being lowered into a steaming bath, comfort enveloping him.

He knows there are monsters, residing just beyond the treeline, ready to strike any unsuspecting human that might cross their paths. He knows from the old tales his nan used to tell him, he knows from the inhuman shrieks that ring out through the woods from time to time, he knows from the image of the barghest that’s been burned into his memory. 

But he also knows he won’t be harmed. Not tonight, at least. His nan’s voice rings out in his head once more as he continues walking, slowly making his way towards civilization.

_He’ll keep you safe._


	3. See The Mountains Where They Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I am so, so glad with all of your comments, they really do fuel me, and they've already inspired me to extend this fic with a few chapters more (though I don't know how many yet, so the counter stays on 7 for now). This fic has been so much better received than I thought it would so just thank you, thank you so much.
> 
> Also find me on tumblr if ya want @queen-squish.
> 
> Don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment, loves!

It’s six in the morning by the time he arrives at the edge of Dewbury. It’s no more than ten houses, spread out over a few square miles, but it’s as close to a town as you’re gonna get in these parts.

He unlocks the front door of the house he’d inherited from his parents, and frowns, as he realizes that at some point, he’d stopped feeling those amber eyes staring at his back. He turns around, and well enough, there’s no sign of the Witcher. He squints his eyes, trying to see if he can find a trace of the white-haired one at the edge of the woods, but unfortunately, he can’t.

He shakes his head slightly. Obviously, Geralt’s probably not keen on walking through the barely-town at six in the morning, when people are starting to get up. Jaskier can’t say that he blames the guy.

He closes the door behind him, dragging his feet up the stairs, falling down limply on the bed in his old childhood bedroom – he still can’t bring himself to sleep in his parent’s old room. It just feels wrong.

He breathes in the familiar scent of the pillows, as sleep quickly overtakes him. He’s tired. He’s so goddamn tired.

\---

He wakes up at two in the afternoon, when the sunlight’s angled in such a way that it falls directly onto his eyelids. He groans, rolling onto his side, pushing the pillow over his face. To no avail, unfortunately. He’s awake now, and he knows his body’s not gonna permit him to go back to sleep.

He makes a late lunch in the kitchen downstairs, eating as he stares out of the window, at the treeline half a mile away. There’s only one other house standing between him and the forest, so he has a pretty good view of the trees and the shadows that lie beneath their crowns.

He doesn’t know why he half expects Geralt to be standing there, just beyond the treeline, in broad daylight. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed when he can’t see the Witcher.

He calls the towing company for his car, and they tell him they can have it fixed up by the time he has to go back to work tonight. They suspect he needs an oil change or something – or maybe more oil? He doesn’t know. He’s not that good with cars, he doesn’t care for them, either.

He doesn’t tell them that there had been a light blinking incessantly next to his steering wheel for the past two weeks. They’ll probably figure the problem out anyways.

\---

He sits on the bench, sheltered from the light drizzle by the bus stop, as he waits for the next bus to arrive. He looks on his phone. It should’ve been here ten minutes ago, according to the schedule. Which means he’ll have to wait another twenty minutes for it to arrive, probably – the buses are always at least half an hour late. If you’re lucky.

He wonders what possessed the town to put the bus stop next to the treeline, right next to the wall of brown and green that separates the barely-civilization they have here from the wilderness of what’s out there. He can’t help but glance to his left from time to time, keep an eye on the trees and the shadows beyond them. He can’t help but feel a little bit jumpy, looking over his shoulder again and again.

He can’t help but hope that he might see a shock of white hair in the darkness of the woods.

He can’t help but feel disappointed when he doesn’t.

\---

A nauseating bus ride and two hours later, he finds himself in his nan’s arms, as he hugs her tightly.

“The nurses treating you well?” he asks her, and she nods, hands folded in her lap as she looks out of the large window at the slight drizzle. It’s fairly quiet in the common room of the nursing home, though he doesn’t really know where the other residents are. He supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“Yes, Julek.” She smiles at him, and he feels a wave of warmth washing through him at the familiar, old nickname. “They’re very kind here. No need to worry about me.” She leans forward, bright blue eyes suddenly alert as her wrinkled fingers trace a scratch beneath his eye. He remembers, last night, when he’d hurt himself, accidentally almost taking his own eye out with the car key he had stuck between his fingers.

The warmth his nan gave him dissipates, cold freezing his veins over, as he remembers the barghest.

“You, on the other hand,” his nan utters, “you seem different, Julek.”

He shrugs. “Car broke down last night, had to walk home through the woods.”

She smiles widely at him, understanding in her kind, blue eyes. “Ah, I see. You saw something beyond the treeline, didn’t you? You met _him.”_

He swallows thickly, as he shrugs again. “Well, yes and no. A barghest attacked me in the middle of the road. The Witcher did save me, though.”

“Of course he did.” She leans back in her chair, gaze growing whimsical as she looks out the window again. “I told you he would look out for you.”

“But it’s not the first time I met him.”

She smiles again, nodding sagely. “You work at the diner, don’t you?” He nods. “Back when I was a little girl, when there were no diners in the middle of the woods, my mama used to make eggs and potatoes right before going to bed. She’d always put them on the windowsill. The plate would be empty in the morning.” Her eyes grow even more distant. “We never lost any of the livestock. There are foxes in those woods, Julek, and the occasional wolf. But all the cows and chickens always survived.”

“Wait. Babciu used to feed the Witcher?”

She nods again, smiling faintly. “I once saw him – well, not him, but his eyes. Glowing in the darkness. I hid under the bed all night, after that.”

He chuckles. “Well, he’s not so scary, nana, he’s quite nice. Saved my life.”

She looks at him with an almost terrifying clarity in her eyes. “That’s what he does, Julek. That’s what he’s always done, that’s what he’ll always do.” Her eyes grow distant again. “Say, when are your mama and tata gonna visit again? I haven’t seen them in a while.”

He frowns, putting one hand on hers, folded in her lap. “Nana, mama and tata are dead, remember? They have been for ten years.”

She blinks, then frowns, looking out of the window again. “Ah. _Niestety._ ”

He nods, blinking the tears out of his eyes. He hates to see her like this – hates to see her losing her once so clear memories. “Yes, nana. Unfortunate, indeed.”

\---

The Witcher doesn’t show up at the Denny’s that night. Or the night after that. Or the one after that.

Jaskier tries not to worry, tries not to stand at the large windows all night, checking the treeline for a sign of the Witcher, tries not to feel something weighing down on his shoulders every time he has to throw the cold plate-full of food away, has to empty the pitcher of iced tea in the sink.

On Thursday, he can’t take it any longer, can’t just sit there all night, waiting for someone who’ll never come, can’t just keep staring at the window, hope and disappointment washing over him, like waves lapping at a beach, over and over again.

_Do not ever go out into the woods at night, Julek._

But fuck that, right? He went out into the woods, just a few days earlier, and he lived to tell the tale. Because Geralt saved him.

So why not try again?

3 AM comes and goes, the plates of food growing cold, the pitcher of iced tea lukewarm. He hops off the table he’s been sitting on for the past two hours, staring out of the big windows, nose practically plastered to the glass. The bell rings merrily as he opens the door, then again, faintly, when he closes it behind him.

 _Shit._ It’s really cold outside, and he forgot to wear a thicker jacket, again. Well, whatever – he won’t be out here for long, hopefully.

He tucks his hands under his armpits, walking across the parking lot to the dark treeline. He squints, but can only see darkness – no eyes glowing back at him, no fangs reflecting the light of the Denny’s, no inhuman growl. No monster. No Witcher.

 _Well, got nothing to lose,_ he thinks. He snorts. _Except my life, maybe._

He cups his hands over his mouth, taking a deep breath. “Hey!” he shouts, the syllable bouncing between the trees, echoing a bit. “Hey! Witcher! You out there?”

He stands still for a moment, listening intently for any sounds, like the snap of a branch or the rustling of leaves – of course, he doesn’t expect Geralt to shout back. Obviously. Meanwhile, his eyes are scanning the treeline, as he turns in a small circle. Nothing.

He tries again. “Witcher! Geralt! Your food is growing cold!” His voice comes out a bit weaker this time, and he feels out of breath, the first tendrils of adrenaline lapping at his veins. He _is_ standing here in an empty and dark parking lot in the middle of the woods, after all. His throat is starting to hurt.

“Witcher!” It’s no longer a shout – though his voice is still raised, hands hanging limply by his side. “Look, I just- I just want to know if you’re still alive, alright? Don’t leave me worrying like this.” Still no sound, no movement beyond the treeline. “Please,” he says, more to himself than to the Witcher, “don’t let me worry like this.”

Nothing.

He sighs, turning around, going back into the Denny’s. He throws the long-cold plates of food into the trash, he empties the pitcher in the sink.

The next shift arrives at 7, as the sky starts to lighten slightly. Triss throws the door wide open, all sunshine smile and freckles. “Good morning!”

Yennefer trails behind her, hand wiping over her face as she groans. “God, it can’t be morning, it’s still fucking dark outside.”

Jaskier laughs, taking off his apron, throwing it on one of the tables unceremoniously. “Sucks to be you, I guess.” He bumps hips with Triss, as they do every morning, and slaps Yennefer on the shoulder. “I, on the other hand, am going to bed to get some much-needed rest.” She glares at him.

He walks to his car, wiping his hand over his face to chase the sleep away just that little longer, just enough so he can get back home without driving off the road. As he opens his car door, his eye is caught by something on the windshield, tucked under one of the wipers. It’s a small, leather bag.

He frowns, taking it from under the wiper carefully, getting into his car. He leaves the door open, to leave the light on, one foot on the asphalt, as he opens the little bag. He reaches inside, fingers closing around something cold and hard.

He pulls it out, opening his palm, gasping softly.

It’s a piece of quartz, translucent and pale, a soft sheen of purple tracing through the white. _It’s beautiful._ He frowns, wondering how it ended up under his windshield wiper. _Wait._

He looks up at the treeline, and catches a glimpse of amber eyes, before they suddenly disappear.

He scrambles to get out of his car, nearly tripping and falling face-first on the asphalt. He regains his balance, before running towards the forest, towards where the amber eyes had disappeared into the dark. ~~~~

“Wait!” he shouts at the trees. “Hold on, wait! Geralt!”

He stops just a few feet short of the treeline, out of breath, the quartz and leather bag still clutched in his hand. He walks forward another few steps, laying his other hand on one of the thick tree-trunks.

Suddenly, his entire world narrows down to where his skin and the bark meet, and he feels dizzy, nearly falling over. His heartbeat thrums in his ears, the sound of his own blood rushing almost too loud to bear. He blinks, pushing himself away from the tree, looking into the forest again.

“Geralt? I know you’re there. I-“ he’s not sure if he should be saying this, not sure if it might push the Witcher away, but it’s been laying heavy on his chest for the past few days. The Witcher has been occupying his thoughts almost every waking moment, his absence leaving a gaping hole in Jaskier’s mind and heart, so yes, maybe he shouldn’t be saying this, but he also can’t _not_ say it. “I miss you.”

He swallows thickly, half hoping for a sign that Geralt is there and listening, half knowing he won’t get one.

“I miss you,” he repeats, clutching the quartz to his chest. “I miss the sound of the bell when you open the door at 3 AM. I miss the safety I feel when you’re there. I miss the way you actually appreciate my cooking.” He snorts. “Not a lot of people do that,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He looks back at the silent trees. “I miss the relief I feel when I know you’re still alive, still doing okay. I miss-“ he cuts himself off, sighing deeply.

He’s run out of words, it seems – can’t really explain all the ways in which he misses the Witcher, misses his nightly visits. For some reason, it had made him feel connected to the Witcher, had made him almost feel like a friend. The visits were _theirs_ and _theirs_ alone, and now they’re _gone_.

“I miss you,” he says again. He waits for a second, eyes still trained on the trees and the darkness behind them, quartz still in his fist, pressed against his chest.

After a few moments of nothing, he sighs, and turns around, disappointment heavy on his shoulders. He walks back to his car, ignoring the curious glances Yennefer and Triss throw him through the large windows of the Denny’s, and gets in.

He lays the quartz on the passenger seat, and starts the car. He looks out of the windshield, looks at the quiet and still treeline for a few seconds longer, before driving away.

When he finally gets home, he doesn’t sleep well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, for all the Polish peeps out there. First of all, hi, how ya doing? Great to see you here.
> 
> Secondly, I am not Polish, so it's me and google against the world, so forgive me if I get any, like, translations wrong.
> 
> Thirdly! I know babciu means grandma, and in this context it's used for a great-grandma. I know. BUT, I wrote the first part of this fic before doing my research because I thought it would just stay a oneshot (which, surprise, surprise, it didn't)(I write multi-chapter fics, it's what I DO). Anyways, I used the word nana for Jaskier's grandma because I did not do my research and by now it's too late to change it, so his great-grandma is now babciu. Is that all I have to say for this chapter? I think so.  
> Seriously, though, please do tell me if I'm wrong about anything else. Personally, I would hate for my mothertongue to be used the wrong way as well. Bardzo dziękujemy!


	4. Smothering Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I know it's been a while... and that's all I have to say on that lmao
> 
> I don't think I have anything else to say for this chapter, actually.
> 
> Enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos. Comments fuel me.

He arrives at work a few minutes late, the previous shift already gone – which, yes, isn’t exactly company policy, but then again, they get about three costumers a day, give or take, so leaving the diner unattended for a short while isn’t such a big deal.

He sits in his car in the parking lot for a while, staring through the windshield at the treeline. He’s tired, so incredibly tired. He slept like shit, not able to keep his eyes and mind off the quartz that was sitting on his bedside table, spending all his time wondering if Geralt had actually heard him when he had been shouting at the treeline, if the Witcher had even cared, if he was gonna show up tonight, and where the hell he got that quartz from.

Though, Jaskier knows there are quite some gem mines in Pennsylvania, but they are highly guarded by now. Maybe the Witcher visited those mines years – decades, even – earlier. Which really raises a lot more questions than it answers.

Like: How old is he? How many people know about Geralt? Did the first settlers know about the Witcher? Did the Native Americans before them know? Did they have a symbiotic relationship with Geralt? How long has he even been here? Where did he come from? Why is he hiding in the woods? Why does it seem like only locals are aware of the monsters and the Witcher? Surely, word must’ve spread at some point, right? If not, why? Do – or did – other towns have their own Witchers? What about other continents?

He sighs, leaning forward, hitting his forehead against the steering wheel. So many questions, that either don’t have any answers, or none that Jaskier will ever find out about, if Geralt really stops showing up. And even if he does, he’s probably not gonna answer any of those questions, not in a satisfactory way that involves more than a clipped ‘hmm,’ at least.

He sighs again, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, before he leans back in his seat again. He takes the key out of the ignition, not even bothering to lock the car as he walks to the Denny’s. _Another shift of nothing,_ he thinks, as he puts on his apron.

Clearly, it’s been quiet for the day shifts as well, since the entire diner is spotless, almost sterile, even. They were obviously bored with how few customers there were.

Of course, he doesn’t blame them – after all, his original plan had been to clean the diner, as well. Though that now means he doesn’t have shit to do tonight. Except make two plates of food and a pitcher of iced tea a little before 3 AM, and throw them out at 4.

So he plays around on his phone a bit, forever mourning the lack of signal out here, he cleans the already spotless glasses, arranges them neatly on the shelves, wipes the clean tables, mops the floor – almost slipping in the soapy water the only interesting thing that’s happened so far during this shift.

And when he’s finally done, it’s midnight. Two hours of his nine-hour shift. _Well, shit. What do I do now?_

It’s still gonna be at least a few hours until 3 AM, and he’s probably not gonna get any costumers until then, so he’ll have to think of something to pass the time.

 _Fuck it._ The bell tinkles merrily as he opens the door, again when he closes it. Once again, he forgot to put on a thicker jacket, and he’s already shivering by the time he reaches the middle of the parking lot. By now, he’s actually not sure if he even owns a thicker jacket, though – maybe he threw away the one he had last spring because it had holes in it? He doesn’t remember, he’ll have to check at home.

He turns around in a small circle in the middle of the parking lot. The treeline is once again still and quiet, the only sound and movement the gentle rustling of whatever leaves are still left on the branches in the wind.

He sighs, sitting down on the asphalt, casting one last look at the trees before lying down. It’s a clear night, and even with the lights of the Denny’s, he can still see the stars fairly well. He sighs again, now in content. He’s fucking freezing, and the ground is uncomfortable beneath him, yes, but he also feels at peace – it’s been so long since he had the opportunity to stargaze. He remembers doing it with his mama, so very long ago, on the clear summer nights, laying on the grass just outside their back door, as she pointed out all the constellations that he could never bring himself to remember.

It’s quiet, oh so very quiet, as he looks up at the stars, arms spread out on the asphalt, one foot on the ground, the other pointing at the treeline. His eyes start to drift close, his lack of sleep catching up to him, finally.

He’s halfway unconscious when he hears something in the woods, hears something break through the treeline, hears the soft rolling of bits of gravel on the asphalt as something approaches him, slowly stalking ever closer.

He doesn’t open his eyes, but takes a deep breath, smiling lazily. “Here to kill me?” Silence. “I’ll have you know that I’m an expert fighter, and can beat you any day.” He lifts his right hand up a bit, into a half-hearted fist, before dropping it to the ground again. “So don’t try it, demon.”

Silence for two or three heartbeats, before: “Wouldn’t dare.”

He cracks one eye open, smiling up at the Witcher that’s looming over him, blocking out a part of the stars above him. He closes his eyes again, sighing contentedly. “’s what I thought.”

It’s quiet for a few more heartbeats, though he can hear Geralt shuffling his feet a bit next to him. He moves his arm around until he finds leather, his hand closing around the Witcher’s ankle. “Why are you so nervous?”

Silence for a second or two. “I’m not.”

Jaskier scoffs lightly, giving Geralt’s ankle a friendly pat before he lays his hand on the asphalt again. “What’s the time?”

“One.”

“Hmm.” He sighs, rolling onto his side, pushing himself up until he’s sitting. “You’re early. Got hungry?” He looks up at Geralt, who’s glaring at him. Jaskier smiles. “Got lonely?”

Geralt looks away.

Jaskier laughs softly, extending his hand. “Come on, help me up.”

Watching Geralt roll his amber eyes is absolutely delightful, feeling a warm hand in his even more so. He lets himself be hoisted to his feet, trying not to think about how incredibly strong the Witcher is. He shivers, rubbing his hands together, when Geralt lets go. “Fuck, it’s cold out here. Let’s get inside.”

He stalks across the parking lot, Geralt following closely behind. The bell rings happily as he dashes into the Denny’s, holding the door open for the Witcher, who once again glares at him.

“Do you not have a jacket?” Geralt asks, as Jaskier busies himself with getting all the things he needs.

He shrugs. “Not sure. Might’ve tossed it out, might’ve lost it. Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters if you put yourself in danger.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder as he fills a pitcher with iced tea. Geralt’s standing on the other side of the bar that separates the dining part of the Denny’s with the foodprep part. He’s never heard the Witcher speak so many words in the whole year he’s known him, though he decides not to mention it, doesn’t want Geralt to snap shut again.

“It’s just some cold, it’s not exactly life-threatening.”

He turns back, scooping some ice cubes into the pitcher. It’s silent for a few seconds as he works. Then: “Going out at night is.”

He laughs. “Oh, so _that’s_ what this is about – me lying in the parking lot. I see.” He turns back, setting the pitcher on the bar heavily, as he grabs a glass. “Well, you see, my dear Witcher. I did that on purpose.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches as Jaskier puts some slices of bread in the toaster, pushing them down. “What?”

Jaskier shrugs again, as he cracks two eggs over a frying pan. “Like I said yesterday, I missed you. So, I did what I knew would summon a certain Witcher, and put myself in the slightest bit of danger.”

The eggs are done soon enough, and he puts them on a plate, before slapping five pieces of bacon into the pan. He looks up, sees fury and annoyance in those amber eyes, sees Geralt gritting his teeth.

He’s already started on the pancakes when Geralt finally says something. “Witchers are not _summoned.”_

Jaskier smiles at Geralt. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have to _put yourself in danger_ to see me.”

Jaskier flips the pancakes over, purses his lips. “Oh, really? Say, my dear Witcher, what _do_ I have to do then? Stand at the edge of the forest and scream at you? Chase after you when you try to run away from me after leaving a rock on my windshield? Already tried that, didn’t work. Do you maybe have a number I can text whenever I want to talk to you? Is that it?”

He takes the pancakes out of the pan, dropping them – admittedly, a bit too harshly – on a plate, pouring a bit of maple syrup over them. He sets the plate down in front of Geralt, along with the plate with the eggs, bacon and toast. He clenches his jaw, hands flat on the worktop, looking into those amber eyes.

It’s quiet for a few moments, before: “You didn’t like the quartz?”

He blinks. He hadn’t expected _that. Guess I was right about him being self-conscious, though._ He stores away the fact that Geralt had left him the quartz cause he thought he might like it at the back of his mind, to be re-examined later.

He frowns, shakes his head. “I loved the quartz. But I’d much rather have _you.”_

“Why?”

_Because you’re funny and kind, in your own way, even if you don’t dare show it. Because I feel safe around you. Because seeing you makes me happy. Because I want to hear every story you’ve gathered over the years and more. Because I want to get to know you. Because you’re more beautiful than any gem you could ever give me._

He shrugs. “Just cause,” he says.

Geralt stares at him for a few seconds, something flashing across those amber eyes that he can’t quite identify.

He sighs. “Are you gonna eat those pancakes or not? Cause I kinda forgot to eat dinner, and I can’t bear to see them just _sitting there.”_

The Witcher rolls his eyes at him, and Jaskier can’t help but smile. “Do you not have any sense of self-preservation?”

Jaskier shrugs again, wiping a cloth over the worktop absentmindedly. “Not really, no.”

Geralt shakes his head slightly, but takes the bottle of maple syrup on the counter nonetheless, pouring a generous amount over the pancakes before sliding the plate towards Jaskier.

He blinks. “Wait, how did you know-“

“You always look like you wanna dump the entire bottle on the plate when you make pancakes for me.”

He smiles at that, and takes the plate. “Fair enough.” He reaches into the cupboard, taking a fork for himself, handing another one to Geralt. “Wait.” He looks up, the wheels in his brain turning. “I _always_ look like I wanna dump the entire bottle on the plate?”

The Witcher freezes, fork hanging in the air aimlessly, as he stares daggers into it. “Hmm.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, smiling slightly. “Have you been spying on me, you sly dog?”

Geralt clenches his jaw, shovelling bacon and eggs into his mouth, decidedly looking at anything but Jaskier.

“Well.” Jaskier shrugs, taking a bite of the pancakes. “Can’t say I blame you. I am quite beautiful, after all.”

Geralt snorts, rolling his eyes at Jaskier again, the corners of his lips twitching a bit.

“I am! I’m certainly more beautiful than the monsters you see in the woods every day, at the very least.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m gonna assume that means ‘ _you’re right, but you’re also the_ most _beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I love you’._ ”

“Hmm.”

“I’m gonna take that as a ‘ _yes’._ But enough about me and my unearthly beauty, what about you, big boy? What’s your story?”

Geralt frowns, eyes zeroing in on Jaskier’s hand, on his fingers holding the fork. “Your skin.”

Jaskier looks down, shrugs. “I’m allergic to iron, irritates my skin.” He shrugs again, rubbing at the red splotches that have appeared under the metal of the fork.

“Hmm.”

He narrows his eyes. “What? What are you thinking about?”

Geralt shakes his head slightly, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. “Nothing.”

“Right.” He draws the word out, lets Geralt know he’s absolutely not convinced. “If you say so.”

They eat in silence for a while, Jaskier’s eyes plastered to the Witcher, only looking away when Geralt catches him staring. His question still hasn’t been answered – he still doesn’t know what Geralt’s story is, still doesn’t know anything about him except for the fact that he’s tall, he has white hair and amber eyes, and Jaskier feels butterflies in his stomach every time he sees him.

But he wants to know more – _needs_ to know more. He just doesn’t have the guts to ask.

They both look up and out the windows as an inhuman shriek rings from beyond the treeline, and Geralt stands up, slinging his swords onto his back. “I have to go.”

Jaskier smiles, feeling a pang of disappointment in the pit of his stomach. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Or, well… wolf. Go get ‘em, white wolf.”

Geralt shakes his head slightly, amusement tugging at his lips, before he turns around, stalking out of the door, the bell tinkling merrily in his wake.

Jaskier sighs, watching the Witcher walk across the parking lot, watching him disappear beyond the treeline, without as much as a glance back.

He waits, waits for Geralt to come out of the treeline again, waits for a sign that the Witcher is there, or at least close by, waits for something, anything, whatever.

He waits the rest of his shift. He waits, even as Triss throws open the door at 7, waits as she asks him if something is wrong, waits as Yennefer frowns at him, as if a question is sticking to her tongue but she doesn’t want to ask. Waits as he walks to his car, waits as he sits in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, eyes trained on the treeline, waits as he starts the car, waits as he leaves the parking lot, waits as he starts driving down the road to Dewbury.

He doesn’t stop waiting until he closes the front door of his house behind him. Then, he gives up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also find me on tumblr @queen-squish


	5. As The Wind Fends Off The Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhhhhh hi. Don't think I've got anything to say, everything is pretty self-explanatory. I did change the chapter titles to lyrics from Empire by Of Monsters and Men, because now that I have more of an idea where this fic is going, I know that this song fits the vibe better.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

The next night he’s practically bouncing around the diner, cleaning already spotless tables, dusting off clean shelves, washing clear glasses. Still, he can’t bring himself to sit still, to wait quietly until 3 AM, as white hair and amber eyes and a single name keep showing up in his mind.

The seconds and minutes tick by slowly, so terribly slowly, as he eventually finds himself cross-legged on one of the tables, knees and nose pressed against the glass, chin on his fists, elbows on his legs – eyes scanning the treeline vigilantly, looking for any movement, any sign of his Witcher.

It’s only 1 AM when he finally spots something moving amongst the trees. He perks up, leaping off the table, running out the door. “Geralt! You’re early! Not that I’m complaining, of course, definitely not, I _am_ very glad to see you. I just wasn’t expecting you so early, but come in, come in! I’ll whip you up some eggs, just how you like them and-“

The stream of consciousness flowing out of his mouth stops abruptly when eyes shine at him from the dark. Pale and white. Not amber.

He stumbles a few steps back when the- the _thing_ breaks through the treeline, skin pale, with white, glowing eyes, spindly arms and legs uncertain as it starts making its way towards Jaskier.

He blinks, cocking his head as the creature stops halfway across the parking lot, staring at him with its pale eyes. He stares right back at it, waiting for it to leave or start approaching him again. Strangely enough, he’s not scared – really, the creature looks a bit pathetic, really.

He narrows his eyes. “You hungry?”

The creature croaks, voice high and hoarse, and it cocks its head, the lights of the Denny’s casting shadows on its face, highlighting its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

Jaskier scoffs softly. “Yeah, I bet you are. Come on.” He motions with his head to the Denny’s, before holding the door open for the creature. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

And slowly but surely, the thing starts moving, crawling towards him across the parking lot on its spindly arms and legs, its joints jotting out harshly. It stops a few feet away from him, pale eyes staring up at him, and he sighs, rolling his eyes slightly. “Come on, I haven’t got all night and it’s freezing out here. I’m not gonna hold this door open for you forever.”

The creature blinks, pale eyes shining through its thin eyelids, before it looks at the doorway, slowly making its way inside.

“There we go,” Jaskier mutters, as he closes the door behind him. The thing is now exploring the Denny’s, white eyes taking it all in, looking at the ceiling lights, at the bar, under the tables, as it crawls around. Its spindly arms easily lift itself up on one of the tables, and it continues its mission there, long limbs carrying it across different surfaces, as Jaskier sets to work behind the bar.

“You like bacon? Oh, I bet you like bacon – who doesn’t, honestly? You like it raw or baked?”

He takes a strip of the meat, holding it out across the bar, waiting for the creature to make its way over to him, waiting as it sniffs the bacon tentatively. Its face contorts slightly, and it lets out a high hiss. Jaskier smiles and pulls his arm back, putting the strip of bacon in the pan, turning the stove on.

“I assume you like it baked, then. Say, what’s your name?” The creature doesn’t answer, but merely positions itself on the bar, crouching, looking at the bacon as it cooks. “I’m Jaskier, nice to meet you.”

The creature startles as he softly takes one of its hands, shaking it once before letting go in favour of turning the bacon. “Seems like you haven’t been eating enough. Such a shame really, nobody should go hungry, human or not. At least I assume you’re not human?” He looks at the creature, who still has its white eyes on the bacon. “Yeah, I think that’s a fair assumption. There we go.” He takes the piece of bacon, putting it on a plate, setting it in front of the thing.

“ _Smacznego._ Don’t bite into it too early, though, it might still be hot.” The creature actually listens to him and keeps staring at the bacon for a minute or so.

“Can you understand me?” The thing doesn’t react to his words. “Alright then, keep your secrets. You know what? I think you should have a name – I feel like calling you ‘creature’ is a bit rude.”

He leans his chin on his hand as he thinks for a few seconds. “You look like a Jeremy to me. You like that? You like being called Jeremy?”

The creature takes the piece of bacon, stuffing it into its mouth, before it looks at Jaskier with big, pleading eyes. At least he assumes its eyes are pleading – he can’t really tell. “Jeremy it is, then. Let’s get you some more of that bacon, huh?”

He slaps three more pieces in the pan, idly chatting to Jeremy, who’s still crouching on the counter, pale, wide eyes alternating between him and the bacon – and it actually seems to be listening to him. Though it might not understand what he’s actually saying, though.

“Anyways, let me get you some eggs as well – we sure do love a balanced diet here. Do you even eat eggs? Doesn’t matter, I’ll just fix them up, and if you don’t like them, I’ll eat them. What about pancakes? Are you a big pancake kinda guy? I know I am. I know Geralt’s not. Hey, he’ll be over in a few hours or so. I’ll introduce you two to each other, it’ll be fun.”

He dumps the bacon pieces on the plate in front of Jeremy, and again, it waits as the meat cools off, eyes fixated on the food. Jaskier turns around, grabbing some eggs from one of the small fridges, turning back around again. His elbow catches on a glass on the worktop, though, and pushes it over the edge.

He flinches, waiting for the harsh sound of glass breaking on the floor – though it doesn’t come. He frowns, opens his eyes, finding the glass halfway to the floor, Jeremy’s fingers wrapped around it, the creature’s pale eyes staring at it, before it gently lifts the glass up, setting it on the counter again. Jaskier blinks, unable to prevent the smile from spreading across his face, as he lays the eggs next to the glass.

“Thank you, Jeremy, that was very nice of you,” he tells the creature, finding white eyes staring at him again.

He slowly, softly raises his hand, the palm pointing at Jeremy, who flinches slightly. Jaskier chuckles, before gently taking a spindly hand, finding little resistance as he pulls it up, laying it flat against his own hand. “High-five!” he says, before letting go of Jeremy’s hand.

Jeremy, in turn, looks at his own hand, before slowly moving it up again, laying it against Jaskier’s once more. It croaks something that sounds like a bad imitation of the English language, but Jaskier smiles still – he could swear it sounded suspiciously like ‘ _high-five’._

But he might be imagining stuff.

Jeremy focuses on the plate in front of him again, nimble fingers picking up piece of bacon after piece of bacon, eating more slowly – less like someone starving – while Jaskier starts cooking the eggs. He scrambles them – not sure if Jeremy will like them sunny side up. Not a lot of people do, so he figures he should better play it safe as long as Jeremy doesn’t talk to him.

As he cooks the eggs, he starts humming. A soft, slow song that resides somewhere in the back of his mind, not sure if it’s from his childhood or something he heard on the radio before.

After a while, Jeremy starts staring at him again, head cocked to the side, gently rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the humming. Jaskier smiles at him, before taking the plate, shovelling the eggs on it.

“There you go,” he says, setting it in front of Jeremy. “Let’s see if you like eggs, hmm?”

Jeremy stares at the eggs for a while again, waiting for them to cool off, as Jaskier busies himself with cleaning the pan, watching Jeremy out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, Jeremy reaches one slender hand out, gently picking at the eggs, taking a piece, before putting it in his mouth.

Jaskier waits, smiles when Jeremy reaches out again, taking a bit more egg this time, eating it.

“Alright, so you like eggs, you like bacon. Come back tomorrow and maybe we’ll find out if you like pancakes.”

Jeremy doesn’t react, still slowly eating the eggs, and Jaskier can’t help but notice that he closes his almost transparent eyelids from time to time – too long to blink, not long enough to be tiredness. Almost as if he’s… content.

Jaskier smiles again, filling a glass with water, setting it in front of Jeremy. “Gotta stay hydrated.”

Jeremy looks at the glass, then at him, seemingly not sure what to do.

“Right,” Jaskier mutters. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you.” He takes another glass, filling it with water as well, looking at Jeremy, making sure he’s watching, as he lifts the glass to his mouth slowly, taking a few sips.

Jeremy looks at his own glass again, slightly greasy fingers reaching out, wrapping around it. He seems to have a slight bit of trouble lifting it, as he reaches his other hand out to hold the glass as well, before he half lifts it, half bows forward, setting his non-existent lips to the rim, and takes a few sips. He looks at Jaskier, pale eyes almost questioning, and Jaskier smiles and nods. “There we go! Not so hard, now, was it?”

Jeremy takes another few sips, before setting the glass down, turning back to his eggs.

Jaskier busies himself with cleaning the worktop, keeping half an eye on Jeremy as he eats. He looks up as the door opens, the bell tinkling merrily, though it’s overshadowed by the loud screech of a sword being unsheathed.

Jaskier startles, rounding the bar, standing between Jeremy and Geralt’s sword, hands raised as Jeremy startles and leaps off the counter, hiding behind the bar. “Geralt, no! Don’t!”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher growls, a warning. “Get out of my way.”

“No, I will not, thank you very much! I can’t let you hurt him!”

Geralt narrows his amber eyes at Jaskier, looking between him and the now empty counter. “Why not? It’s a Ghoul, it’s dangerous.”

Jaskier blanches, putting his hands on his hips. “Yes, and so are you. And so am I! So is every human! So is literally every animal! Besides,” he waves his hand, “Jeremy’s been here for two hours and all he’s done is eating and looking sad. So back off, Geralt.”

The Witcher lowers his sword, looking both alarmed and very confused. “Jeremy?”

Jaskier nods. “Yes, that’s his name. He’s Jeremy and he’s my friend. Now please put that sword away, you’re scaring him.”

The Witcher still looks like Jaskier just grew another head, but does as he’s told anyways, sheathing his sword. “You named a Ghoul Jeremy.”

“He looks like a Jeremy.” Jaskier rounds the bar, finding Jeremy crouching on the floor, head in his slender hands. “Hey, buddy,” Jaskier whispers, softly taking one of his hands. “It’s okay, he won’t hurt you. Do you still wanna eat your eggs? I promise you won’t be hurt. I promise. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

And, though his pale eyes are still frightened and fixated on Jaskier, Jeremy lets himself be gently guided up, until he’s on the worktop, hopping on the counter again quickly afterwards. He still looks at Geralt distrustfully, but takes some eggs anyways, stuffing them in his mouth.

“See?” Jaskier asks. “Nothing to worry about, buddy. It’s alright. He won’t hurt you.” He turns to the Witcher. “Will you?”

Geralt frowns, clearing his throat slightly, looking a bit uneasy. “Uh… yeah. No. Won’t hurt you.”

Jaskier claps his hands. “There we go! Lemme get started on your dinner, though, my wolf.”

He works in slightly uncomfortable silence, as Geralt and Jeremy keep giving each other distrustful glances. Eventually, he can’t bear the quiet anymore. “You know, you still haven’t answered my question from yesterday, Witcher.”

“Which was?”

“What’s your story?”

He looks up from his pan after a few moments of silence, finding Geralt staring out of one of the windows, distant look in his amber eyes. A soft touch on his left shoulder distracts him, though, and he sees Jeremy reaching out one hand, looking at him with big, pleading eyes.

Jaskier frowns. “What is it, buddy? Do you need more food?” The realization hits him when Jeremy stretches out his other arm as well, leaning towards Jaskier. “Ah, I see.”

He opens his arms, stepping a bit closer, letting Jeremy wrap his spindly arms around his shoulders, his legs around his waist. Luckily, Jeremy isn’t too heavy, and can hold himself up as he’s wrapped around Jaskier – so he’s still able to use his arms and move around as the Ghoul buries his face in his shoulder, croaking slightly, almost sounding content.

Geralt scoffs at the sight, and Jaskier gives him a warning look, wrapping his arms around Jeremy protectively. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m not going to.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, then shrugs slightly – as well as he can with a Ghoul wrapped around him like a koala. “Alright then, no dinner for you.” He moves the plate with food out of Geralt’s reach, smiling when the Witcher rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“You’re being childish.”

“Come on, why won’t you tell me?”

Geralt seems to hesitate again, amber eyes growing distant. “It’s… hmm.”

“Painful?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs, moving the plate towards Geralt again, holding onto Jeremy with his other arm. “Alright, then. I understand.” He smiles softly, and the Witcher visibly seems to relax.

He looks at the clock. “Oh, my, it’s getting late.” He frowns. “Or early. I don’t know, night shifts are weird. What even is time? Either way, I should probably…” He cranes his neck, looking at Jeremy, who still has his face nuzzled in Jaskier’s shoulder and seems so content. “I should probably let him go,” he whispers, an unexpected wave of sadness washing over him. “Gonna miss this little guy.”

The corners of Geralt’s mouth pulling up slightly, something warm and soft in his eyes as he looks at them. “Maybe it’ll be back tomorrow.”

Jaskier frowns again, a knot forming in his throat. “Yeah, but… but he’ll be all alone out there. There are so many dangerous things in those woods, what if he gets hurt?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a Ghoul. Sure, a young one, but a Ghoul nonetheless. The creature will be fine.”

Anger swells in his stomach, and he tightens his arms around Jeremy. “He’s not an ‘ _it’,_ Geralt. And he’s not a ‘ _creature’,_ ” he hisses.

“Hmm. If it’s not an ‘it’ and it’s not a ‘creature’, then what is it?”

“ _He_ is- he’s... I don’t know, I don’t care. I’m not sending him out there on his own. I can’t.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

He swallows thickly, laying his chin on Jeremy’s head. “I don’t know. I- Maybe take him home?”

“What if he doesn’t want to come with you? It’s a Ghoul, after all.”

He sighs. “Maybe I’ll… I’ll set him free on the parking lot and if he chooses to leave, then… that’s his choice.” He fights the tears that are forming in his eyes.

Geralt sighs softly, then looks at the clock. “Well, you better get going, then. The morning shift will be here in an hour.”

Jaskier nods, hesitantly, arms tightening around Jeremy of their own volition. “Right, yeah, right. You’re right. Okay. Let’s do this, then, I guess.”

He walks to the door, the cold of the early morning hitting him as soon as he steps outside – though Jeremy keeps him warm. The little guy looks up at him, startled by the sudden cold, and Jaskier once again has to fight his tears, when he crouches down, gently prying Jeremy’s limbs from his body.

Finally, he lets go of Jaskier, and jumps onto the asphalt, where he continues looking up at Jaskier with those big, white eyes.

“Right,” he mutters. “If… if you gotta go, I understand. I won’t be mad at you, I promise.” He waits for Jeremy to turn around, to crawl back to the treeline, but the little guy keeps sitting there on the asphalt, looking up at him.

Jaskier startles when he hears Geralt’s voice behind him. “Maybe you should leave, maybe then it’ll understand.”

Jaskier nods, then shrugs. “I suppose.” He looks over his shoulder, taking the car keys Geralt hands to him, before giving Jeremy a final wave. He walks away, not daring to look over his shoulder – though tears gather behind his eyes when he hears a soft, confused croak behind him. Clearly Jeremy has no idea what’s going on, but Geralt’s right – it’s probably for the best if the Ghoul goes back to the forest.

Except he feels a tug on the hem of his shirt, and when he looks down, he sees Jeremy, looking up at him with those pale eyes, hands clenched in the fabric of Jaskier’s shirt. He looks back at Geralt, who smiles softly, then shrugs. “Guess it doesn’t want to leave you.”

Jaskier smiles back, before looking down again, softly disentangling Jeremy’s hand from his shirt, holding it gently. “Guess he’s coming with me, then.” He looks back at Geralt. “Can you keep an eye on the Denny’s until Triss and Yen get here? Would hate for the place to get robbed.”

The Witcher shrugs. “Sure.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then?”

Geralt smiles again, looking at him and Jeremy one last time. “See you tomorrow,” he says, before turning around, stalking into the woods, disappearing beyond the treeline.

“Alright,” Jaskier mutters, walking to his car, Jeremy next to him, “guess we’re going to your new home, huh, buddy? Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.” He opens the car door, softly tugging at Jeremy’s arm, who takes the hint and gets in the passenger seat, looking around curiously, startling slightly when Jaskier closes the door.

He walks around the car quickly, getting in the driver’s seat. “Hey, don’t worry, don’t be scared, I’m not going anywhere. Hmm. Should probably put your seatbelt on, but also- don’t think that’d go very well.” He shrugs, starting the car. “Alright, no seatbelt it is!”

Jeremy looks scared at first, when the car starts moving, but quickly relaxes, curling up in his seat, leaning his head against Jaskier’s shoulder. He can’t help but smile. Though he’s barely known the little guy for eight hours, Jeremy’s already found his place in Jaskier’s heart.

And he finds himself not minding that one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan Jeremy or die by my hand. 
> 
> I'm also on tumblr @queen-squish!  
> EDIT: I took some liberties with what a ghoul looks like (it's not like on the show or anything like that) cause uhhhhh I do what I want


	6. I Count Down The Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say, when I first started writing this fic, I had no idea it was going to turn out like this. (Though I had no idea how it was going to turn out in general, really, I had no plans besides 'turn this oneshot into More')(hey, what can I say? I'm a slut for adding more and more WIPs onto my pile). But boy, am I glad it turned out like this, because I'm having so much fun writing this. Jeremy is now my child. He is babie.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and please do leave kudos and a comment! (Seriously though, I was overwhelmed by all your comments stanning Jeremy on the last chapter, it really gave me life. Thank you all so so much)(please stan him some more this chapter)(and all the ones to come)(did I mention he's babie?)

“Geralt?” He’s standing in front of the treeline near his house, shouting into the void. “Hello? Geralt? I kinda need your help, can you hear me?”

It’s quiet for a while, and he sighs, before looking down at Jeremy, who’s staring up at him with wide, pale eyes. “You know, we should get him a phone,” he mutters to the Ghoul. “It’d be a lot easier to try to talk to him, then.” Jeremy croaks, cocks his head, before looking at the trees again.

Jaskier follows his gaze, smiling broadly when he sees Geralt stalking through the trees, towards them. “Ah, there you are, Witcher. Was wondering whether you were gonna show up or not.”

Geralt stops a few feet away from the treeline. “What is it, Jaskier? Second thoughts about the creature?”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at him. “No, I’m not having _second thoughts_ about Jeremy. I just need you to watch him for a while.”

Geralt stares at him. “Why.” It doesn’t even sound like a question – more like Geralt’s trying to hide his annoyance.

“Ah, well, you see, I have to go to the store, and I don’t think Jeremy’s quite ready for that just yet, and I can’t really leave him alone, so…”

He gestures with one hand, the other occupied by Jeremy’s hand. Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’re not bringing it along because it’s not ready for the store? Not because it’s a Ghoul?”

“For the last time, he’s not an ‘it’, Geralt, don’t be rude. And okay, yeah, maybe the people in the store wouldn’t react well to him, but that’s besides the point – I really need to go to the store and I don’t wanna leave him home alone, so… can you help?”

Geralt lets out a long, laborious sigh, before extending his hand towards Jeremy. “Fine.”

“Ah, well, not like that. You see, he’s kinda afraid of me leaving, and will, like, keep clinging by my side, so I thought it’d be better if he stayed in the house? That way he might know I’m coming back and then he can also stay in a familiar environment.”

“Familiar environment? He hasn’t been there a full day.”

“Geralt, please, I really need your help with this.”

The Witcher rolls his eyes again. “Fine. But only for today.”

Jaskier can barely suppress a broad smile, and turns around, walking back to his house, half a mile from the treeline. “Well, come on, then. We haven’t got all day. After all, I’ve still got a shift tonight.”

After a couple of seconds, he hears Geralt following him. “What are you going to do with him tonight?”

“No idea!” Jaskier replies cheerfully, stress low in his chest. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave him home alone, but it’s also probably not smart to bring him along, in case there are customers.” He thinks for a few seconds, as they walk in silence. “Maybe I should just take the night off, until I figure out what to do.”

“Hmm.”

“Can’t you just maybe watch him tonight as well?”

“I’m a Witcher, not a babysitter, I have responsibilities.”

Jaskier snorts, looks back at Geralt. “Oh, yeah, like what? Killing monsters?” He turns back to the stretch of grass between the treeline and his house, as they walk past his only neighbour – though that house is empty. “Are there even any monsters anymore?”

“Not if you keep taking them in.”

He turns back to Geralt again, points a finger at him. “Hey, watch what you say. My Jeremy is _not_ a monster.”

“It’s a Ghoul, Jaskier. If it’s not a monster, what is it?”

“A child.”

He hears another heavy sigh behind him, but he pretends he doesn’t hear it, as he walks around the side of the house, towards the front door. “Here we are.” He opens the door, closing it behind Geralt.

“You didn’t lock your door.”

He scoffs, lets go of Jeremy’s hand, who reaches up. He crouches, and lets the Ghoul climb onto his back, clinging to him like a koala. “Look around, Witcher. Do you see anyone in the vicinity? Any reason for someone to be in the middle of nowhere and break into this house, specifically?”

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Then: “Fair point.”

Jaskier turns around, barking out a laugh at the sight of the Witcher in his just-a-bit-too-small-kitchen, looking positively uncomfortable. Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier shakes his head. “Alright, _so,_ I’m definitely gonna have to buy every childproof lock I can find at Walmart, because, good lord, this house is _so_ unsafe. Not only that, but he can _climb,_ which means I just can’t put things on high shelves and hope for the best.” He points at the drawers. “Make sure he stays away from the cutlery. He tried to swallow a fork this morning.”

Geralt snorts and Jaskier gapes at him.

“That’s not funny! It could’ve seriously hurt him!”

“It’s a Ghoul, he can handle it.”

Jaskier crosses his arms in front of his chest. “You know, if you’re not gonna take this seriously, I can just call someone else.”

They both know he can’t, but Geralt just rolls his eyes and doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” Jaskier continues, before walking into the living room. “You can just put him in front of the tv and keep an eye on him, he likes cartoons.”

Geralt frowns at him. “What’s a tv? What are cartoons?”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._ He points at the flatscreen on the wall. “That’s a tv. To turn it on, push the button on the side. It’s still set to Cartoon Network, so just put Jeremy on the couch and turn the tv on and you’ll be fine. Quick question, though, how old are you even?”

Geralt blinks, looks to the side, as if thinking. “What year is it?”

Jaskier waves. “You know what? Just forget about it.” He points to the hall, where the stairs are. “If he’s tired, you can either let him nap on the couch or tuck him into bed. Either one of the bedrooms is fine, I guess, but I suppose he’ll have to learn to sleep on his own at some point, so for now, try to get him to sleep in my old bedroom down the hall if he’s tired.”

“Did he not sleep on his own last night?”

Jaskier sighs, shakes his head, as he recalls the way Jeremy had clung to him, had refused to leave his side for more than five minutes. “No. Actually had to sleep in my parents’ old room for like, the first time ever, cause my childhood bed isn’t big enough for the both of us.” He shrugs. “So I guess eventually he’ll sleep in my room and I’ll sleep in my parents’ bedroom. It’s whatever.”

Geralt regards him for a few moments, something soft in his eyes Jaskier can’t quite identify. “Doesn’t seem like it’s whatever.”

He clenches his jaw, shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now – he has to get going, before the store closes. Luckily, Geralt drops the subject. “What if he wants to eat?”

“Uh… yeah, try to get him to eat vegetables and fruit, you know, healthy stuff, I guess. But if he eats all of that, just give him the snacks as well. I don’t want him to go hungry again, and I don’t want him eating the cutlery.” He gives Geralt a pointed look. “No matter how much his stomach can handle it. That cutlery was my babcia’s, it’s expensive.”

Geralt smiles softly. “Got it.”

He nods. “Right, right. Did I say everything that needed to be said?”

“We’ll be fine, Jaskier.”

Suddenly, something comes to mind. “Oh! Stop calling him ‘it’, please, I don’t want him to grow up feeling like a monster or an object. And please call him by his name.”

Geralt sighs softly, rolls his eyes, though the corners of his mouth are slightly pulling up. “Fine. Now go, it’s going to be okay.”

And though he knows that yes, reasonably, everything should be fine, he feels a strange heaviness sitting on his chest, feels tears gathering behind his eyes. He crouches down, and Jeremy jumps off his back. He turns around, cradling that little, innocent face in his hands.

“Okay, _żabko,_ tata’s gonna go now, okay? Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, I promise you I’m coming back. Okay? Tata loves you very much and would never leave you behind. Tata’s coming back. Okay, _żabko_?”

Jeremy merely croaks, seemingly very unaware what’s going on. Geralt sighs, walks forward, crouches on the floor next to Jeremy and stretches his arms out. “Come on, little guy.”

Jeremy looks at the Witcher, then at Jaskier, who smiles and nods encouragingly, though he can still feel tears stinging behind his eyes. He doesn’t want to go, really, but he has no choice. It’s just a trip to the store, he tells himself, nothing to worry about. At all. No, sir.

Jeremy slowly approaches Geralt, before finally wrapping his limbs around the Witcher, holding on tightly. Jaskier stands up straight, gathers his keys and the grocery bags, before walking to the front door. He notices Geralt hasn’t followed him, when he closes the door behind him, but when he turns around, he sees the Witcher and Jeremy by the living room window that looks out over the street.

The tears are back with a vengeance, almost immediately rolling down his cheeks when he sees that Jeremy has a hand pressed to the window, when he sees the scared and sad expression on his face. He walks to the window, lays his hand on the other side, smiles encouragingly. “Tata will be back, żabko.”

He turns around, decidedly not looking over his shoulder when he walks to the car and gets in. He can’t, however, help but look at the living room window when he closes the car door. Jeremy’s looking properly scared now, struggling against Geralt’s grip – hell, even the Witcher looks a bit sad at the sight, but Jaskier can’t stop the sob that escapes his lips. He wants to go back inside, so desperately, tell his little boy that he loves him so much and that he would never leave him behind. But he can’t, he needs to go to the store, he needs to get the groceries. He needs to do this, even if it’s incredibly hard to start the car, even if the tears streaming down his face blur his vision, even if he softly starts sobbing when he peels out of the driveway.

He needs to do this.

\---

It’s only an hour’s drive to the store – after all, he still lives in Fuck-All-Nowhere, Pennsylvania – but every minute of it is absolutely torturous, and he’s pretty sure he breaks several speed limits. He does realize, when he walks into the Walmart, that he forgot to make a grocery list, so he’ll just have to figure out what he needs on the fly, and hope that he doesn’t forget anything.

_Right, so what’s first?_ Food. Food is always a good start. He gets all the basic things – fruit, vegetables, dairy, assorted meats – before scooping a generous amount of snacks into his cart. He figures, if he’s going to raise a Ghoul on his own, he’s gonna need all the snacks he can get.

The realization that he’s now a single dad hits him like a sack of bricks, and if he breaks down in aisle 14, then that’s between him, the fluorescents, and the jars of pureed fruit on the shelves next to him.

After he gets his shit together – with the help of a kind, old lady who just happened to be passing by – he moves on to the baby aisle. He figures he’s going to need diapers, since he doesn’t want Jeremy to start shitting on the floor or something, and it’s probably gonna take a while to potty train him. _He’s going to have to potty train the Ghoul. He, Jaskier, a 28 year old single guy who lives in his dead parents’ house and works the night shift at Denny’s, is going to have to potty train the Ghoul who seems to have adopted him as a dad._

He doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry, or how many diapers he’s going to need in a day, even, so he gets four of the largest packs he can find. He hopes it’ll do for now. He also gets several parenting books, and it makes him feel slightly better – even though they probably won’t offer a lot of advice for dealing with Ghouls.

_Right, what else?_ He throws every childproof lock he can find into his cart.

Next, he moves on to the clothes section. His eye is immediately caught by a frog onesie, and he smiles. Last night, when Jeremy had first explored the house – under Jaskier’s watchful eye, of course – he had immediately been drawn to Jaskier’s old frog plushie, laying in his old bedroom. Jeremy had refused to let go of the thing, which had earned him his nickname – _żabko._ Froggie.

He does realize he has no idea what size Jeremy is, and he’s pretty sure there aren’t going to be any children’s clothes to fit his long, spindly limbs, but after some careful consideration, Jaskier takes two onesies in a size he’s pretty sure will fit his żabko.

He picks out a few more clothes for Jeremy, mostly shirts and jeans shorts – though all jeans are probably going to turn out as shorts for the Ghoul. He sighs to himself, regarding the contents of his nearly overflowing cart, making sure he’s got everything he needs. As an afterthought, he gets some wooden building blocks as well. Can’t go wrong with building blocks, honestly.

He frowns when he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket, and he pulls it out. His confusion grows even more when he sees the caller ID states ‘home’, until he remembers that it’s the phone at his house that has that ID. He starts to panic then, hand trembling slightly as he accepts the call. _Oh, God, please tell me nothing went wrong, please-_

“Hello?” He curses the fact that his voice is so shaky.

“Jaskier.” He closes his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him, when he hears Geralt’s voice. _Something went wrong, something went wrong, something went wrong._ “I can hear you panicking. You need to breathe.”

“Geralt,” he manages to choke out, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Actually, I called to tell you everything is fine.”

He blinks at that, the wave of relief not entirely washing away the panic just yet, though. “How do you even know how to use a phone?”

“There was a note with your number next to it and this… thing has numbers. Not that hard to figure it out.”

He sighs, softly, resists the overwhelming urge to start crying again. “So… everything is okay?”

“He calmed down pretty quickly after you left, then fell asleep. I think he tired himself out. I put him to bed.”

“Geralt, tell me you didn’t leave him alone in his room to go to the phone downstairs, I swear to fucking God if you left him on his own-“

“Jaskier, calm down. He’s now downstairs. Watching… tv. I don’t understand cartoons.”

Jaskier laughs at that. “Okay, good, okay. I’ll head to the checkout, then. I’ll be home in an hour or so. Tell him… tell him his tata loves him.”

“I think he already knows that,” Geralt says, and Jaskier must be imagining the fondness in his voice.

“Alright, see you soon.”

“See you soon.”

He hangs up and puts his phone back into his pocket, before heading to the checkout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Walmart. I don't know what they sell there. Don't @ me, I'm not American.
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr, @queen-squish!


	7. Heavy Stones Fear No Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I was planning on uploading this chapter yesterday, but something about it didn't sit well with me, so I had to rewrite it. Which is why it's a bit late lmao. Anyways, I was right, this version is a lot better and I'm actually proud of it, so I really hope you enjoy this one, y'all.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of death and car crashes
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please do leave kudos and a comment! (For every comment, I will write more of this fic. That is just fact)

He’s a big ball of nervous energy by the time he parks his car in the driveway. Though, as soon as he turns his engine off, the front door opens, Geralt walking towards him with Jeremy on his hip. Jaskier gets out as quickly as he can, bounding towards his żabko, who reaches for him with spindly arms.

Jaskier smiles, as he hugs Jeremy tightly, pressing him against his chest, his little one wrapping around him like a koala, burying his face into Jaskier’s shoulder. And sure, he may or may not be crying a little, but he decides it doesn’t matter, when Geralt gives him a soft smile.

“Thank you,” he whispers to the Witcher, who shrugs, and walks towards the car – starts unloading the groceries.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Jaskier grins, picking a bag with fruit and vegetables from the backseat, following Geralt into the kitchen, Jeremy still clinging to him. “Oh, I see. You’re starting to get attached to him, aren’t you?”

Geralt scoffs, and simply shakes his head, before walking outside to get more groceries from the car.

\---

Together, they manage to childproof – or, well, Ghoulproof – the entire house in the span of a few hours, which all in all, isn’t that much time, considering how much of the place poses a serious safety hazard to developing monsters.

“So,” Jaskier muses, as he and Geralt place the last locks on the kitchen drawers, “do you, by any chance, happen to know how quickly Ghouls age?”

The Witcher sighs softly. “About twice as fast as human. And Jeremy is… about two years old, I think.”

“Which makes him four in human years? So he’s a toddler?”

“Hmm.”

It’s quiet for a while, and he leans his palms on the counter, looking out of the window to the treeline. “Geralt, where are his parents?”

The Witcher scoffs. “I don’t exactly know where Ghouls come from, but I know they don’t have parents.” He sighs, looks at Jaskier, before quickly directing his gaze to his own hands, leaning on the countertop. “All I know is you’re his parent, now,” he whispers.

“Aw, don’t worry, Geralt, you can be his parent too, if you want.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but smiles.

_Doesn’t say no._

It’s quiet for another few moments, as Jaskier looks out the window, still, watching the world outside darken as night begins to fall. It’s weird, watching the darkness from the comfort of his own home, instead of through his windshield – this will be the first time in a long while he won’t spend the night at the Denny’s. It’s a strange feeling, but that might also be due to the Ghoul clinging to him, still, and the Witcher right next to him.

“Wanna…” He nearly swallows his words, almost takes them back. This afternoon, he had asked Geralt to be here purely out of necessity, but asking him to stay now would only be out of self-indulgence, and he’s not sure if he wants to face the consequences and implications of that. But he’s started his sentence, now, and Geralt’s looking at him expectantly. “Wanna stay for dinner?”

Geralt shrugs. “Sure.”

_Oh. That went better than I expected._ Still- “It’s okay if you don’t, though. Like, I get that you have responsibilities and shit, to protect the humans from the monsters in the woods and whatnot-“

“It’s fine. They won’t miss me if I stay here tonight.”

He bites his lip, something fluttering in his chest. “And what if you stay longer? When will they start missing you?” he whispers.

Geralt gives him an odd look. “I don’t know. I’ve never stayed away more than one night.”

Jaskier doesn’t ask the question that’s burning on his tongue. _Wanna find out?_ He can’t ask that. Not now. Not ever.

Instead, he walks to the fridge, peering inside. “How much of a spaghetti fan are you?”

\---

He finds out Geralt is very adept with a knife and a master at cutting vegetables – though that is no surprise for a man who handles dangerous weapons every day. Weapons that Jaskier forced the Witcher to lock in the garage, by the way. Can’t let little Jeremy near those, ever.

Dinner is a bit weird and slightly chaotic – with Jeremy almost swallowing a fork again, Jaskier and Geralt barely able to stop him. With Jaskier filling the silence with idle chatter, until he asks Geralt about the quartz he gave him a few days earlier, and suddenly the Witcher is unstoppable, droning on and on about gems, barely able to contain his excitement and Jaskier finding it incredibly endearing, actually. With Jaskier trying to teach both a Ghoul and a Witcher at the same time how to eat spaghetti without getting it all over the walls. With Jaskier leaning forwards, laughing, and wiping some stray sauce from the corner of Geralt’s mouth and Geralt freezing and staring at him with wide eyes.

But somehow, it’s the best dinner Jaskier’s had in his life, and every time he looks at Geralt or Jeremy, looks at them interacting, looks at Geralt wrestling a spoon out of Jeremy’s mouth, trying to stop him from swallowing the thing whole, his heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest.

Afterwards, they manage to get Jeremy into a diaper and one of the frog onesies, though with some trouble, since the Ghoul just won’t lie still – too caught up in his curiosity, in his urge to explore the house and the new childproof locks to do so. But they do manage, eventually, and pretty soon, Jaskier’s carrying a sleeping Jeremy up the stairs, towards his old bedroom, where he tucks his little one in.

He goes back downstairs, joins Geralt in the kitchen, where the Witcher is washing the dishes. “Geralt, you don’t need to do that, you’re my guest.”

“I do, _because_ I’m your guest. You made dinner. You invited me into your home.”

Jaskier sighs softly, grabbing the tea towel. “At least let me dry off. Also, there’s a perfectly good dishwasher, like, right there.”

“What’s a dishwasher?”

Jaskier scoffs, disbelief washing over him, until he looks up at Geralt, sees a small smile playing around the Witcher’s lips. “Oh, you’re just pulling my leg, aren’t you? Unbelievable. It’s honestly disrespectful that you would do that in _my own house,_ in front of my _own son-“_

“Jeremy’s upstairs.”

“ _Still.”_

Geralt rolls his eyes, looks out of the window, to the treeline, as Jaskier puts the last dish in the cupboard, closing the childproof lock. He looks at Geralt again. “I assume that this is where we say goodbye again, then?”

“I suppose so.” He tells himself he’s just imagining the wistful glint in those amber eyes.

Geralt turns around, walks towards the kitchen door, and a heaviness settles in Jaskier’s chest. “You can stay the night, if you want.” It’s out of his mouth before he’s even aware he’s thinking it.

The Witcher stops, turns back around. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“Well, I’m offering. How long has it been since you’ve slept in a real bed? Days? Weeks? Years? Do you even own a bed? Do you even own a house?”

Geralt smiles lightly at his stream of questions. “I don’t have a house, but I do have a bedroll.”

“You don’t have a house? Please don’t tell me you live in a cave, Witcher.”

Geralt’s silence is answer enough.

Jaskier gapes at him. “ _Really? A cave?_ Well, now I’m gonna have to force you to sleep in a real bed in a real house tonight, just so you know.”

Geralt smiles. “How can I say no to that?”

“You can’t. That’s what ‘forcing’ means.”

“Alright, fine.” Geralt walks to the living room, sits down on the couch.

Jaskier trails behind, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Going to sleep.”

He scoffs. “Did I or did I not just tell you you’re gonna sleep in a real bed?”

Geralt frowns, looking slightly confused and thus slightly endearing. “If I take your parents’ bed, where will you sleep?”

He shrugs. “On the couch. I don’t care.”

“I can’t do that to you.”

“And I can’t do that to _you._ ”

Geralt looks at him, frowns. “Guess we’re at an impasse.”

Jaskier folds his arms in front of his chest. “Guess we are.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, as he and Geralt continue staring at each other. Finally, he sighs. “Alright, so we can continue this staring contest that neither of us is gonna win, _or_ we could just both take the bed.”

Geralt’s frown deepens, though Jaskier hadn’t thought that possible. He stares at Jaskier a few seconds longer, until: “Fine.”

\---

He walks into the bedroom after brushing his teeth, finding Geralt already in the bed, on the side nearest to the door, arms folded behind his head. He’s mostly covered by the blanket, but still very clearly shirtless, and Jaskier finds himself blushing, looking away as quickly as possible.

He changes into his pyjamas, relaxing slightly when he doesn’t feel eyes on him – at least Geralt’s a gentleman and doesn’t ogle him the way Jaskier’s been ogling Geralt. Though, to be fair, he already knew Geralt was a gentleman, and that is to be expected of someone _that_ old – however old that may be.

He frowns as he climbs into the bed, turning to Geralt. “How old are you? Really, I wanna know.”

Something tenses in Geralt’s shoulders, and the Witcher turns onto his side, back to Jaskier. “Doesn’t matter.”

He wants to say that it matters to him, because really, it kinda does, but he’s scared Geralt might take that the wrong way – might think that Jaskier won’t care about him if he’s too old. Or won’t care about him if he’s not old enough. So he doesn’t say anything.

He is still curious, though, about every little story and detail Geralt has to offer about his life, but he knows prodding for answers won’t do him any good. It will probably just make the Witcher snap shut again, and Jaskier can’t bear that happening, not now that he has Geralt so close, now that he might be starting to see a side of him not a lot of people have ever seen. If any.

He sighs. “So are there other Witchers?”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, until Geralt nods, half turning back to Jaskier, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “There’s three of us.” The end of his sentence is decisive, and Jaskier knows he won’t be able to get any more information about the other Witchers from Geralt. At least, not this way.

_Alright, different subject._ “Do you know Mothman?” He cringes at the question his mind blurted out before he was even aware he was thinking about it.

Geralt frowns at him, slight amusement pulling at his lips. “ _Mothman_?”

Jaskier can feel a furious blush spreading up his cheeks, and shrugs. “It’s a… _thing,_ that lives in the next state over, West Virginia – or well, has been _rumoured_ to live there. Supposedly, it’s manlike, with red eyes and wings for arms. No one’s sure if it exists, but I thought, hey, if anyone _does_ know it exists, it has to be a Witcher, and well, you’re right here, so-“

His rambling is cut short by Geralt’s deep chuckle, music in Jaskier’s ears. “Tell me more about this Mothman. When was it sighted? And by whom?”

Jaskier frowns. “Uh… It was first seen in the 60’s, I think, by some teenagers in a car in the middle of nowhere. It flew after the car while letting out a high-pitched screech.”

He frowns deeper when he the corners of Geralt’s lips pulling downwards suspiciously, as if he’s holding in his laugh. “And West Virginia, it’s to the west of this state?”

“A bit to the south, actually.”

His eyes widen when Geralt lets out a laugh. A full-on belly laugh. Geralt, the White-Haired One, the Witcher, is in his bed, letting out a full-belly laugh. _What the fuck?_ “Care to share with the rest of the class what’s so funny?”

“It’s Lambert.”

“What? Who?”

“Mothman. I’m pretty sure that’s Lambert. Another Witcher. He lives a little bit to the south, and it’s very like him to try to scare some teenagers by dressing as a giant flying creature.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. _Well that’s some info on the second Witcher. Didn’t think I’d get it like this, though._ “Uh-huh. And how are you so sure it’s him and not just a monster?”

“The high-pitched screeching. No monster does that, it’s too comical.”

Jaskier grins. “I mean, yeah, fair enough.”

They both calm down a bit, and it’s quiet for a few minutes. Jaskier tries to force himself to relax in the unfamiliar bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the roughness of the sheets against his skin, of the too-soft mattress underneath him, of the insanely fluffy pillows threatening to swallow him whole.

After a while, he feels Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, just… not used to this bed.”

It’s silent for a few seconds. “Why not?”

He frowns, a bit confused. “You know this is my parents’ room. I used to sleep down the hall.”

He hears a soft sigh to his left. “I mean, why did you not sleep here in the first place? I gather they’ve been dead a while.”

Something sharp and heavy shoots through Jaskier, and he turns to face the wall, curling in on himself, folding himself around the sudden pain he’s feeling. He doesn’t like that word. _Dead._ It’s the word the doctors used ten years ago, to inform him that neither of his parents had survived the car crash. It’s the word that was used at the funeral a lot. It’s the word that he has to keep using to remind his nan that no, they’re not coming to visit soon, they’re _dead._

_Have been for ten years._

It’s the word that keeps repeating in his head, lacing the fond memories of his mama and tata with poison, turning them dark and bitter and aching – always leaving him longing for days long gone. For a time when he wasn’t yet 18, when he still had both his parents, when he still had a tether in this world.

He frowns again. _Except I do now, again._ He has Jeremy, and he and his little one will hold each other down, will be there for each other. Except it won’t be the same. He won’t be as innocent and naïve as he once used to be, he won’t be taken care of. He’ll have to take care of someone else, protect them in this harsh world. But he’ll gladly do it. He’ll do anything. As long as he has Jeremy and Jeremy has him.

He remembers the drive to the Walmart earlier that day, he remembers his hands clenching around the steering wheel, he remembers the uneasiness in his spine, he remembers the cold sweat gathering in his neck, he remembers the visions that kept plaguing him – of someone driving into him, of losing control of the car, of dying on the road and leaving his son alone in this world.

_Just like they did to me._

He doesn’t realize he’s crying, until he feels Geralt hand on his cheek, wiping the tears away as he sobs. He feels a broad chest against his back, he feels a strong arm pulling him close, and he feels _loved._

Except this is Geralt, and Geralt doesn’t love him. And if he does, he doesn’t love Jaskier the way that Jaskier loves him. The Witcher is just trying to comfort him, in the best case because he cares about him and wants him to be happy, and in the worst case because he can’t sleep if Jaskier is crying next to him.

Yet, he can’t find himself to care much, as his sobs slowly turn into hiccups, and his hiccups slowly turn into sniffles, and his sniffles slowly turn into deep, steady breaths, as he feels himself drifting off to sleep, feeling at home in his parents’ old bedroom for the first time in ten years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @queen-squish!


	8. I Find Comfort In The Sound And The Shape Of The Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooptiedoo I still got a writer's block but I'm working through it! For now: feels. And backstory! Yeehaw!  
> (don't worry, more silly times are still ahead, in case you don't like feelings lmao)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and please do leave kudos and a comment! I love comments! (I don't want to beg but I can and I Will)

He startles awake, the bed next to him completely empty, sheets slightly rumpled and cold. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Geralt?” Of course, he gets no response, the room clearly very empty. He turns around, looking at his phone – it’s 8 in the morning.

He drags himself out of bed, the fog of sleep clearing from his head as he walks to his old bedroom. The door is open, but the bed is empty. “Jeremy? Żabko?” No response.

And okay, yes, maybe he starts to panic slightly. Maybe he fears for the safety of his Witcher and his child. Maybe he walks down the stairs a little bit faster than is strictly necessary. Maybe his heart is pounding in his throat.

And maybe he relaxes when he smells eggs and bacon. Maybe he smiles when he hears Geralt’s voice, soft and low, coming from the kitchen.

He pads through the hall, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, watching as Geralt softly talks to Jeremy, who’s on his hip, as the Witcher stirs in a frying pan, presumably making scrambled eggs.

“-now quartz, that’s my favourite. It can have many different colours, but the ones I’ve found most are the white ones. I think I actually gave one to your tata, a while ago. It’s on his nightstand now.” He can practically hear the smile in Geralt’s voice, and something in his chest melts. “Back at home, I went to Italy once. Bought some quartz there, too.” Jaskier can hear him sigh softly, sees the Witcher’s shoulder slump a bit. “Would love to see Italy again, someday, though I suspect it’s changed since back then. It’s been a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?” Geralt looks at Jaskier over his shoulder, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of an open and vulnerable expression, before a shadow passes over the Witcher’s face, and he closes up again.

He shrugs, turning back to the scrambled eggs. “A long time.”

Jaskier sighs and walks forward, leaning his chin on Geralt’s shoulder, one arm over the Witcher’s other shoulder, another around his waist. “You know you can talk to me, right, Geralt? About anything.”

Geralt scoffs, but it’s soft and slightly pained. “I know.” Jaskier doesn’t believe him.

He sighs again, watching as the Witcher stirs the eggs in the pan. “You weren’t there when I woke up,” he whispers. “I was worried.” _Worried something had happened to you. Worried I’d chased you away with my sobbing at the mere mention of the word ‘dead’. Worried I’m not good enough for you._

“I’m sorry,” Geralt mumbles. “You were still asleep and I heard Jeremy waking up. I figured I’d better let you get your rest.”

Jaskier smiles softly, pressing his lips against Geralt’s shoulder before he’s even aware he’s thinking about doing it, landing a small kiss against the fabric of the Witcher’s shirt. He feels the muscles against his skin tensing. “Well, thank you, I guess. For everything.”

“Hmm. My pleasure.” Geralt doesn’t relax, though, and Jaskier sighs, pressing a hand between the Witcher’s shoulder blades.

“Why are you so tense? Talk to me, Geralt.”

“It’s fine.”

He sighs again, rolls his eyes, pressing another kiss to Geralt’s shoulder, because it feels wrong not to do so. The Witcher tenses ever more, somehow, and a realization dawns on Jaskier. Of course. He should’ve known Geralt doesn’t like physical contact, doesn’t like Jaskier being plastered against his back. It makes sense – the man has been living on his own for God knows how long, so of course contact would feel wrong and bad. He sighs again, starts to pull away when Geralt’s hand shoots up, holding the arm Jaskier has around his waist in place.

“Don’t,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier blinks, frowns, but obliges anyways, pressing himself against Geralt’s back again, burying his face in a broad shoulder, Jeremy asleep on the other. “Geralt,” he mutters, “I want to…” He pauses, not sure what word to use. _Hold you. Kiss you. Have you with me for the rest of my life. Make you feel better. Help you get through whatever it is you’re going through, make you forget all about it._ “Help. I want to help. But you have to talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

Geralt sighs, turns the stove off, leaning the hand that isn’t holding Jeremy on the edge of the countertop, shoulder tense under Jaskier’s cheek. It’s quiet for a minute or so, the air thick and heavy with words unsaid. “I don’t-” Geralt starts, but abruptly stops himself, sighing softly. “I don’t want to burden you.”

“You won’t. I promise you, you won’t.”

Geralt nods, once, and Jaskier could swear he exhales a little shakily, before pushing himself away from the counter. Jaskier lets go as Geralt walks to the living room, setting Jeremy down on the couch. Jaskier gets the wooden building blocks he bought at Walmart yesterday, and hands them to his żabko, who seems happy enough to play with them – after all, he doesn’t feel like putting the tv on Cartoon Network would improve the conversation he and Geralt might be about to have.

He motions at the dinner table on the other side of the room, and Geralt sits down, Jaskier taking the chair at the head of the table – not sitting down opposite Geralt, which would be too confrontational, but also not right next to him, which would be too intimate and too difficult to make eyecontact. He also has a perfect view of his Jeremy from here, to make sure he doesn’t run off or something.

He sighs, turning to Geralt, who’s staring at the polished wood, hands intertwined in front of him. He waits for the Witcher to speak, since he doesn’t know what Geralt wants to talk about in the first place, so he can’t ask about that, and he doesn’t want to push the Witcher, either.

“I-“ Geralt starts, before wiping a hand over his face, brows knitting together. “I don’t know how…”

“How to tell me whatever it is you want to tell me?” Geralt nods. Jaskier sighs softly, looking at his own hands on the table. “Alright, what if… what if I go first? I tell you some of my… hurt. And then you tell me yours?”

Geralt nods again.

“So… you know my parents are…” He swallows thickly. “Dead,” he chokes out. “You were right, yesterday; they have been for a while. Ten years to be exact. They… _passed_ because of a car crash. And when I was driving to and from the Walmart, yesterday, I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop thinking about…”

“The same thing happening to you?”

Jaskier nods, wipes the tears that are threatening to spill over away. “I just don’t wanna leave my Jeremy alone like that. I know I haven’t had him for a long time, but I just… I love him so much. And I’m so scared I’ll mess it up or leave him alone or something, it’s… it’s so paralyzing. Whenever I think about it, I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t- I can’t do anything but make sure he’ll be safe and happy.” He hiccups softly, wiping more tears away. “Which is why I suddenly burst into tears last night,” he says, trying to give Geralt a measly grin that feels more like a grimace. “So there you have it.”

Geralt looks at him for a few seconds, looking slightly worried and contemplative, brows knitted together. “I don’t want to go.”

Jaskier blinks, all thoughts of his own hurt gone and forgotten. “What?”

Geralt looks away, staring at his own hands again. “Yesterday, you asked how long it’ll take before I’m needed in the woods again. I can’t stop thinking about that question. I- I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I… I hope it’s a long time, because I don’t want to go.” He looks up at Jaskier again, just for a brief glance, before he looks to his side, at Jeremy, who’s still playing with the wooden blocks. “I don’t want to go,” he whispers.

Jaskier looks at Geralt, sees the soft and pained glint in his eyes as the Witcher watches Jeremy play. He didn’t really expect this confession, to be honest. Really, he expected Geralt to admit he actually didn’t even like being around them and wanted to go back to the forest to be alone again. But this… It hurts Jaskier to think that Geralt feels like he _has_ to go back into the woods, hurts to think that he might not have a choice.

But if there’s one thing Jaskier inherited from his nan, it’s her stubbornness. He reaches out, clasps one of Geralt’s hands into his. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll make this work, I promise.” He reaches up, slowly, as to not startle the Witcher, cupping his cheek softly. “You’ll always have a place in our home.”

Geralt leans into his touch, though only ever so slightly, amber eyes slightly glazed over. “Thank you.”

He chews on his lower lip, lets go of Geralt, intertwines his hands on the table again. “But, Geralt… If we wanna figure this out, I need to… I think I need to- to _know._ About…” He waves his hand vaguely, but the Witcher seems to understand what he’s saying, and nods, looking away again.

“I don’t know… where to start. How to…”

Jaskier smiles softly, reaching for Geralt’s hand again, who grasps it, running his thumb over Jaskier’s knuckles. “Start at the beginning.’

The Witcher takes a deep breath, seemingly steadying himself. “I was born in 1601 in England.” Jaskier feels his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. _Wow, okay._ He hadn’t expected Geralt to start at the _very_ beginning, and he definitely hadn’t expected that beginning to be well over 400 years ago. But then again, he’s not sure what he _had_ expected.

He nods. “Go on.”

Geralt sighs again. “I was born into middle class. Everything was fine, until 1625, when my parents sort of… forced me to move to the colonies with them. Said we’d find a better life here. And we did, it went great, until…”

The Witcher sighs, hand tightening around Jaskier’s until it borders on painful, but Jaskier lets him be, doesn’t say anything, merely waits.

“It started with… shrieks, in the woods surrounding our little settlement. Inhuman ones.” Geralt seems to shiver slightly, his shoulders tensing. “I remember them clearly. I remember how everyone brushed it off as animals that could only be found on this continent. But that was before people started going missing.”

Geralt swallows thickly, audibly, and stays quiet for a while, amber eyes focused on nothing in particular – or maybe focused on things that are no longer there. “Go on,” Jaskier whispers, after several minutes. “People started going missing, then what happened?”

“Sometimes we’d find a body. Sometimes we didn’t. Eventually, we decided it would be better to not go into the woods anymore, we no longer wanted to find the dead. Half the town was gone in less than a year. It was quiet for a while, and we figured everything had returned to normal, but…” He chews on his lower lip for a second. “But then those shrieks were no longer just in the woods.”

He’s quiet for a while, as Jaskier watches him intently.

“The first monster I ever saw was a Barghest,” Geralt says, voice barely above a whisper. “It came out of the treeline in the middle of a town gathering. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Some… some men tried to kill it with fire, with pitchforks, and eventually it worked, but… but it came at a great cost. That was the day we knew that those things in the woods weren’t animals. They were monsters.”

“Then what happened?” Jaskier whispers.

“We found out some other towns were experiencing the same thing. The leaders, they… they held a meeting, amongst themselves. We later found out that someone else had been there, that day, someone who was adept in the- the ‘forces of nature’, some called it. Others said it was magic.” He wipes a hand over his face again. “I don’t know what to believe. Either way, the stranger told the leaders, apparently, that he could… _make warriors_ for them. Men who were stronger and faster and less likely to die, who would defend the villages against the monsters.”

_Oh._ “So the leaders agreed?”

Geralt nods. “So the leaders agreed. The ten biggest towns would pick out someone who they thought had enough strength to survive… well- the stranger called it ‘trials’, I was told later. Someone they thought would be a good defender, and those ten individuals would be brought together, in the woods somewhere, and would be subjected to those trials.” His voice grows even more quieter, his face slowly going slack. “Whether they wanted to or not.”

It’s quiet for another while, as Geralt stares at their hands, intertwined on the polished surface of the table, the soft clacking of wooden building blocks on the floor the only sound in the living room.

“I had no choice,” Geralt whispers, eventually. “They didn’t ask me, didn’t give me time to prepare. They were just… there, by my bed, in the middle of the night. I still don’t know who they were. I suppose other men from the settlement, but… I don’t know.” He closes his eyes, then, brows creeping towards each other again. _He looks like he’s in pain._

Jaskier lays his other hand over their intertwined ones, giving Geralt’s hand a soft squeeze. “You don’t have to continue, Geralt,” he whispers. “If it hurts too much, you don’t have to continue. It’s okay.”

Geralt opens his eyes, looks at him, and though he looks pained, he also seems determined. “No, I want to keep going. I want you to know.”

Jaskier nods, softly. “Okay.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds until Geralt continues: “Like I said, there were ten of us. We were brought to a cave in the middle of the woods, somewhere, far away from our homes. No one knew what was going on, and we were all so scared. I still…” He lifts his free hand, rubbing at his own wrist softly. “I still remember how frightened I was when they bound me to a table. I remember the awful taste when they forced me to drink… something. I don’t know what it was. I only remember pain, after that.”

Jaskier frowns. “You said there were ten men that were chosen, but yesterday you said there were only three Witchers.” The word feels wrong in his mouth, now that he knows what horrors lie behind those two syllables.

Geralt nods. “Only the three of us survived. We spend a few more months in those woods, as they taught us how to use different weapons and a few Signs – how to use the same power as that man used to change us. After that, they sent us to our own villages again. They didn’t teach us anything about the monsters we were fighting. Just told us we had to keep the people safe and not die, because it had been a very long process to make us into Witchers, and they didn’t feel like doing it again with someone else.”

“So everything you know about monsters, you had to learn yourself?”

Geralt nods.

“That can’t have been easy.”

The Witcher- _his_ Witcher nods again, then shrugs. “Got plenty of scars from that. But we heal faster, so it wasn’t that bad.”

He looks at Geralt for a few seconds, expression still pained. “But something was. Something was bad, wasn’t it?”

Geralt nods again. “It wasn’t the monsters, it was the people. They hated me, for what I’d become. I could smell the hatred on them, could smell it every time I set foot in the village. They were scared, too.”

“So eventually, you figured it would be for the best if you stayed in the woods.” Geralt nods.

His Witcher falls quiet after that, and Jaskier figures that must be the end of his story, so he takes a few moments to think.

A lot of things make sense, now. Why Geralt was so hesitant to step out of the treeline, why he only visited the Denny’s in the middle of the night, when it was least likely that there were people there. Why the knowledge of his existence had faded into obscurity. Probably why it had taken so long to get Geralt to talk to him, too – probably afraid Jaskier would show the same hatred and fear Geralt was used to getting. Which also explains why the Witcher seems so insecure. How can one not hate themselves after being hated by others for so long?

And _that…_ well that casts everything into a different light, doesn’t it? If Geralt is scared of being hated, is insecure about himself, and has barely spoken to another person in years- _decades,_ even, then there’s so many more things that make sense.

Why he tenses up when touched. Why he seems to be averse to needing someone and being needed. Why he seems ready to run away any second, yet treats Jaskier like he’s a rabid animal about to lash out – because in Geralt’s mind, he _might be_. Why he doesn’t want to talk a lot about the things he likes, unless Jaskier explicitly asks him about them, at which point Geralt suddenly becomes unstoppable, ranting on and on about gems and minerals and their different properties and colours and where to find them. It explains everything about Geralt that had made him look mysterious and unlikable, it explains all the confusing bits about his Witcher – how he seems to want affection and closeness but keeps pulling away, how he seems to not want to talk unless he is shown that Jaskier _wants_ him to talk, how he’s so big and strong and unique yet so _insecure._

It explains so much.

But it does not give them a solution to the problem at hand – doesn’t offer them a way to keep Geralt here and the surrounding towns safe at the same time.

Though, as Jaskier stands up and walks over to Geralt, pulling his Witcher into his chest, feeling Geralt’s arms around him, he figures a solution can wait. At least a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @queen-squish!
> 
> Once again! Comments are not only welcomed and appreciated but also loved and treasured!


	9. How It Echoes Through the Chest From Under the Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

He’s drenched. Completely and utterly _drenched._

He sighs, wiping his bangs out of his face as he sits down heavily on the bathroom floor, watching Jeremy splash happily in the bath, pale eyes wide and filled with joy – he’s barely had his żabko for two days but somehow, he can already tell.

“Can you hand me a towel? They’re in those cupboards.” He points to his left and Geralt fishes out a towel, handing it to Jaskier before taking one for himself. Geralt’s just as drenched as Jaskier is.

Who knew Ghouls aren’t fond of water? They sure didn’t.

But they did eventually manage to wrestle Jeremy into the bath – hence why they’re both drenched now – by plying him bubbles and nicely scented soap and a rubber duckling, which Jeremy is happily playing with now. Jaskier shelves the information that Jeremy likes ducks away for later. Maybe he’ll be able to find his żabko a duck onesie. _Wouldn’t that be a sight?_

But though he’s perfectly happy watching his little one play in the bath, something heavy sinks in his chest, making him ache.

“What is it?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier looks up to meet amber eyes, his hands fisting the damp towel.

“Nothing,” he lies.

“You’re upset.”

He sighs, relenting. There’s no use trying to lie to his Witcher – it’s almost like Geralt can _sniff_ it out or something. He should ask Geralt about that later, actually.

“I gotta go back to work tonight,” he mutters. “Can’t afford to skip another day. Especially not now that I’ve got Jeremy to take care of.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, brows knitting together. “I can… stay. Take care of him.”

“You’ve got monsters to kill, Geralt. Who knows what happens if you stay another night?”

Geralt hums again, lowering himself on the floor next to Jaskier with a grace that would even make the most professional ballet dancers jealous, amber eyes glued to the Ghoul splashing in the bath. “I… I can take him with me?” It’s more of a question than a statement, seeking Jaskier’s approval rather than demanding.

“Are… are you sure he won’t get in your way?”

Geralt shrugs, something akin to a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “He could be quite useful, actually. Ghouls can detect predators from a mile away – even further than Witchers can. I’ll just try to steer clear from other Ghouls.”

Jaskier grins, the image of Jeremy clinging to Geralt’s back like a backpack while the Witcher slays a monster making something giddy bloom in his chest. Speaking of backpacks – “He’ll be able to carry some water and snacks for both of you as well. I got him a froggie backpack from Walmart.”

Geralt frowns, though the smile still dances across his lips. “I don’t know what the mart of walls is but I suppose you’re right.”

“Can get some father-son bonding in there as well.”

This time the smile fades. “I’m not his father.”

“Oh.” The giddy spark disappears, snuffed out by Geralt’s denial. _Do you want to be?_ He doesn’t bother asking. He doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“Not-“ Geralt quickly says, something close to guilt flashing across his face. “Not… that I don’t like him.” He frowns. “Though he is a Ghoul. It’s just… _you’re_ his father already.”

Jaskier blinks, and it takes him a second to remember that Geralt was born in the seventeenth century, and has spent most of the time living in the woods since then.

“Someone can have two fathers,” he says softly. “You know that, right?”

Geralt’s frown only deepens, and he tears his eyes away from the Ghoul to look at Jaskier again. “How?”

He can’t help the smile that dances across his lips. “Well, Geralt, when two men love each other very, very much-”

“Then they are very good friends,” Geralt fills in for him, a confused lilt to his voice. “But how would they… sire a child… together? And why?”

“Jesus, Geralt, have you never heard of adoption? And they don’t necessarily have to just be ‘very good friends’, they can love each other as a man would a woman or a woman would a man.”

Geralt blinks and looks away, a small blush creeping up his neck, and Jaskier has to fight the urge to dust his lips across it just to feel the heat beneath Geralt’s skin. “No, they can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s wrong.”

The silence is only broken by Jeremy happily splashing in the bath, crooning softly at his rubber duckling, completely unaware of the heavy air around them. Geralt’s face is as perfectly blank as ever, but Jaskier can tell that there’s something more – something that’s making his Witcher’s heart grow heavy.

“Who told you that?”

Geralt scoffs. “Everyone. The church, my parents, the entire town-“

“The entire town? And why would _the entire town_ tell you that?”

The silence stretches on and on, and bit by bit, Geralt turns his face away from Jaskier, as if he can’t even bear the sight of him from the corner of his eye.

“Geralt,” he whispers, scooting closer, ignoring the way Geralt slightly twitches, as if fighting the urge to get away. “Geralt, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I’m a Witcher. I’m an abomination.” For some reason, Jaskier gets the feeling those two sentences aren’t related.

“You’re not.” He sighs deeply. “When I was fourteen, I had a crush on my best friend,” he says softly. “I was in love with him. Eventually, I told him and he told me that he loved me back. I kissed him in the garden as we sat in the tall grass.”

Geralt tenses minutely, though he does turn his head slightly towards Jaskier.

“My mother saw us from the kitchen window, though. You know what she said at dinner that night?” Geralt shakes his head a bit, barely more than a tremor. “She said: ‘Julek. Please stop sitting in the grass. It’s really hard to get the stains out of your clothes.’”

Geralt now fully turns to face him, eyebrows knitted together. “That’s it?”

He smiles softly. “That’s it. That’s all she said. You know why? Because it’s _not_ wrong to love men. It’s not an abomination and it’s not unnatural. And people figured that out while you were in the woods.”

“Oh.” It’s soft and barely there, and Jaskier knows he’s gonna have to let it sink in for a while, so he turns back to his żabko, scratching a finger underneath his boy’s chin. Jeremy closes his eyes, leaning into the touch as he lets out content little chirps, long fingers flexing and relaxing around his rubber duckling.

“One of the other Witchers,” Geralt whispers suddenly, and Jaskier has to fight not to snap his head towards him, to give Geralt space and time to gather his thoughts and courage. “I… was in love with him. Before… everything happened, even.”

“Lambert the mothman?” Jaskier asks, eyes still fixed on his żabko.

Geralt chuckles softly, a sound that echoes through Jaskier’s bones before it finds its way to his heart. “No.” It’s quiet for another while. “Eskel. He was from the next town over. We… used to meet in the woods.”

“Hmm,” he hums softly.

“Someone caught us as well.”

The tone of Geralt’s voice tells Jaskier that his Witcher’s done talking, and he decides not to ask for more. It won’t do either of them any good to push Geralt further than he’s willing to go.

“Can you hand me another towel?” he asks instead. “And grab one for yourself as well. It’s time to get Jeremy out of bath and I fear that this might be a two-man job as well.”

\---

Both of them end up drenched again. Who knew getting a Ghoul out of water is as tough as getting him into it, once he’s used to it? They sure didn’t.

\---

The hardwood floor of the hall is hard even through the fabric of his jeans as he kneels in front of Jeremy, making sure the frog onesie is completely zipped up. He reaches back to pull the hood over his boy’s bald head as well, as Jeremy croons softly, looking confused.

“There we go,” he mutters. “All bundled up. Gotta make sure you don’t get cold.”

“I’ll keep him warm,” Geralt says matter-of-factly, as if it’s not the sweetest thing Jaskier’s ever heard. _Wish you would keep me warm._

He shakes the thought away, adjusting the straps of the backpack that rests against Jeremy’s back, tightening them slightly to make sure they don’t slide off.

“Right,” he says. “I suppose it’s time to go, then?”

He’s already got his work clothes on, and Geralt’s already in his armour, his swords by his side instead of on his back, where they usually rest.

“You sure you two will manage?” he asks his Witcher, trying his best to push down the worry in his chest. “If you’re not sure, that’s fine, too. I’ll take the day off again. Or I’ll take him to work with me.”

Geralt sighs, stepping forward to rest a heavy hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and he has to fight not to lean into the touch. “We’ll be fine. And you need the money.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to push the anxiety out of his lungs when he blows it out again. “Alright.” He pulls Jeremy into one last hug, holding him tightly to his chest for a few seconds, before pulling back, cupping his boy’s cheek softly. “Now, you behave, alright? Be nice to Geralt. And be careful.”

He plants a kiss on his żabko’s forehead before standing up, breath shaky, heart hammering in his throat.

“I hate this,” he whispers as Geralt crouches down to let Jeremy climb onto his back. The Ghoul doesn’t have any qualms with separating from his tata, by now, as long as Geralt’s there. “I fucking hate this.”

Geralt stands up straight again, reaching out and taking Jaskier’s hand in his gloved one, running his thumb along Jaskier’s skin. Somehow, it doesn’t really help to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

“We’ll be fine, Jaskier. I promise I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“You promise to look out for yourself as well?”

Geralt blinks, smiling softly as he cocks his head. “I’m a Witcher. I don’t need to look out for myself.”

“Promise me anyways.”

A soft sigh. Jaskier could swear he hears fondness in it. “I promise.”

Geralt squeezes his hand a bit, before letting his fingers go slack to pull them away from Jaskier’s grip. It takes Jaskier half a second longer to let go as well and when he does, Geralt immediately steps back. _Must be easier for him to let go._

Geralt opens the door, letting in the cold air and stepping outside. His Witcher looks at him, lips slightly parted and brows furrowed as if he’s about to say something.

But then he closes his mouth and shakes his head, turning around and walking into the night.

\---

Fifteen. It’s fifteen steps from one end of the Denny’s to the other. There are ten tables. Sixteen lights. Fifty-seven ceiling tiles. A hundred and thirty-five tiles on the floor. Forty-five clean and polished glasses on the counter.

Jaskier polishes them again.

He walks the fifteen steps from one end of the diner to the other and back again. He looks out the window.

Five minutes pass.

He polishes the glasses. Walks from one end of the diner to the other eight times. He looks out the window.

Another fifteen minutes pass. He resists the urge to punch a hole through the window.

Two AM passes. Hopeful and naïve, he makes a plate with five pieces of bacon, two eggs, and a slice of toast. Another plate with three pancakes and a little bit of syrup. A pitcher filled with iced tea. He makes some scrambled eggs for Jeremy.

Three AM passes.

He walks to one end of the diner, before retracing his fifteen steps. He polishes the fifty-five plates in the cupboard. He doesn’t punch a hole through one of the windows. He sits on a table and plasters his nose to the glass. He counts a hundred and thirty-nine trees. One car in the parking lot. Zero life to be seen beyond the treeline.

Four AM passes.

He doesn’t throw out the plates of food, just in case. Naïve. Stupid. They won’t come visit him. Why would they?

He wants to go home. But he also doesn’t. Because what will he find when he returns home? Dark rooms and silent hallways. Doesn’t seem like home.

Maybe home is elsewhere.

Four-thirty AM passes.

Four-forty-five AM passes.

Four-fifty AM passes.

Four-fifty-one AM passes.

Time slows to a crawl. His breath fogs the window. The clock ticks behind him. His heartbeat pounds in his chest.

Five AM passes.

He counts a hundred and thirty-nine trees. One car in the parking lot. One shadow moving beyond the treeline. Four eyes reflecting the light of the Denny’s. Two amber, two white.

He leaps off the table, the bell above the door ringing merrily when he storms outside, unable to contain his joy.

Geralt _‘oof’_ s slightly when Jaskier slams into him, wrapping his arms around his Witcher and his żabko, hearing his froggie croon happily.

And all of a sudden, he’s home.

He pulls back, grinning at Geralt’s confused expression before taking his Witcher’s hand, leading him to the diner. “I’m so happy to see you two.”

“Clearly,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier ignores it, the bell above the door tinkling again when he opens and closes the door behind them. “You have no idea how dreadful this shift’s been. But that doesn’t matter- you’re here now. So how have you two been doing?”

He lets go of Geralt’s hand in favour of putting the plates of food in the microwave and turning it on, long fingers wrapping around his shoulder as his żabko clambers onto his back, and he pats Jeremy’s head behind him as he waits for Geralt to respond.

“Fine.”

He grins. “Just ‘fine’? Come on! Tell me something more than that!”

He looks over his shoulder to find Geralt on one of the stools on the other side of the counter, a blush creeping up his neck. “I… uh…”

“What is it, Geralt? What happened?” Fear and worry start to stir in his chest, and he lifts a hand to cradle Jeremy’s on his shoulder.

“Well, uh… I sort of…” Geralt scratches the back of his neck, mumbling the rest of the sentence under his breath.

“You sort of what?”

“Showed him my rock collection,” Geralt says softly, not meeting Jaskier’s eye.

He presses his lips together, heart suddenly growing three sizes as he tries his very best not to straight-up _squeal._ He’s saved from having to answer – and risk making embarrassing noises in the process – by the microwave beeping, and he turns around to fetch the food, setting two of the plates down in front of Geralt, the other next to him.

He lifts Jeremy off his back, setting him down on the counter, where the Ghoul digs into the eggs.

“Geralt,” he says gently, “look at me.”

Amber eyes creep up until they meet his face.

_I love you. I love you I love you I love you._ “Thank you. For taking such good care of him. And… I would love to see your rock collection sometime, too. If that’s alright.”

A careful smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. “I’d like that.”

Then, four things happen at once. Or in quick succession, at the very least.

The bell above the door rings, interrupted by a blood-curdling scream, which is in turn interrupted by several glasses smashing on the floor as Jeremy leaps off the counter, knocking them off the shelves with his long limbs. The sound of shattering glass, in turn, is also interrupted by the screech of a sword being unsheathed and the noise of a barstool being toppled over.

Then, everything stills.

Yennefer is standing in the doorway, Triss hiding behind her, fearful eyes peeking over her shoulder. Geralt’s amber eyes are fixed on them, sword in hand as they, in turn, look between the Witcher and to where Jeremy is clinging to Jaskier’s back, his face buried in his tata’s shoulder as he makes pitiful, scared noises.

“What,” Yennefer says, voice shaking slightly, “the fuck is _that thing?_ ”

Jaskier frowns, nose scrunching in annoyance as he exchanges a look with the Witcher- amber eyes that seem to tell him ‘ _I told you there’d be trouble with Jeremy’._

“Don’t be rude,” he says. “That’s just Geralt.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know it took me nearly five months to update this fic, but in my defense, I really didn't know what I wanted to do with it. I sorta do now. (But if any of you wanna see anything specific happen in this fic, lmk in the comments!)
> 
> Also I transed my gender in the meantime. I'm king_finn now. And @king-finnigan on tumblr.
> 
> Again! Please do leave comment! Because believe it or not but 1 comment = 1 animal onesie for Jeremy.


	10. As The Hills Turn Into Holes, I Fill Them With Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff? Did someone say fluff? It's what you're getting. Also about thirty onesies.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

They stand there for a little while, as Yennefer’s eyes flick between Geralt, Jaskier, and Jeremy. Triss slowly starts to emerge from behind her friend.

“What,” Yennefer says again, a bit more emphatically, “the fuck is that? And I’m not talking about the cat-eye, buttercup.”

Jaskier laughs nervously, pointing a thumb at Jeremy. “Oh, him? He’s uh… he’s… my nephew.” He bites his lip, desperately trying to think of an excuse as to why his nephew would have grey skin, white eyes, no nose, and limbs as long as Jaskier’s legs. “He’s… from Europe.”

He closes his eyes as he cringes internally, trying to resist the urge to slap his own forehead. _Great one, Jask._ A soft groan from Geralt tells him his words were about as well-received as they were well-sent.

“Right,” Yennefer drawls. “And let me guess, white-hair over here is your grandpa, also from Europe?”

“…Yes?”

Geralt sighs again, rolling his eyes. “I’m Geralt,” he says, his voice drawing Yen and Triss’ eyes to him. “I’m the witcher of these woods. And that…” he points at Jeremy, who’s lost interest in the conversation, gnawing on his own fingers with his blunt teeth “…is a ghoul.”

Yen pulls her eyebrows up. “A _ghoul?_ You’re keeping a _fucking ghoul_ as a pet?”

Jaskier gapes at her. “I am _not!_ Jeremy is not my pet, he’s my son!”

“He’s your fucking _what?”_

“Geralt the witcher?” Triss interrupts them, brown eyes wide and sparkling with curiosity as she looks at Geralt. “ _You’re_ the witcher of these woods? You’re not really what I expected.”

“What did you expect, then?” Geralt deadpans, the corners of his lips tugging upwards almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know. Fangs. Horns, maybe.”

“I had them filed down.”

Jaskier blanches. _Did Geralt just make a joke?_

Truly, today is a day of many surprises.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” Yen says, before Jaskier can comment on it. “You’re telling me that you, Jaskier, the stupidest man I’ve ever met, has _adopted_ a _ghoul_ and has a _witcher_ as a _boyfriend?_ ”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jaskier says, ignoring the sharp tug in his chest at the thought, “and how are you not more surprised about the fact that ghouls exist? How the fuck do you even know what a witcher is?”

“I’m a mage, you idiot!”

“So am I!” Triss pipes up, grin on her face.

“We’ve told you that, buttercup.”

He stammers a bit, mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land. “I- I didn’t… I didn’t fucking believe you! Why would I? Magic isn’t real!”

“Magic made me,” Geralt interjects.

Jaskier puts his hand up. “Geralt, I love you, but I need you to not talk right now, I am having _several_ revelations.” He turns back to Yen. “So you’re like… a real mage and shit? Can you do magic?”

She makes a face. “Sort of? There isn’t exactly a _school_ for it, so there’s a lot of stuff we have to figure out on our own, but yes, in theory, we can do magic.”

He furrows his brow. “Can… can you use your magic to give this place wifi? I’m going to die of boredom in this goddamn Denny’s if I have to endure one more shift without a signal.”

She groans. “That’s not how it _fucking works,_ buttercup.”

“Then how does it work?”

“I don’t know!”

“Geralt!” Geralt seems to startle at Jaskier’s voice and the attention that’s suddenly directed at him. “Magic made you, right?”

“Y- yes.”

“Then you must know how it works.”

“I… I really don’t.”

“Well, you’re useless.” He frowns at his own words. “I didn’t mean that. You’re not useless, but right now you kinda _are_ useless in my quest to use Yen’s magic to get a signal here.”

“Buttercup, I told you magic doesn’t work like that. And even if it did, I wouldn’t fucking do it.”

“Why not?”

“Jaskier, your son is drooling on your shoulder,” Triss interjects. Jaskier cranes his neck to find out that Jeremy’s fallen asleep and is, in fact, drooling on his shoulder. Whatever. It’s his work shirt, anyways.

“It’s a ghoul, Triss,” Yen mumbles, “stop calling it his son.”

“Oi!” Jaskier exclaims. “Don’t call Jeremy an ‘it’!”

“His name is _fucking Jeremy?”_

“Dammit, Yen, stop swearing! He’s just a kid.”

Yennefer gapes at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, rendered near-speechless for the first time since Jaskier’s met her. “I am going to get into my car,” she starts slowly, “and I am going to run you over.”

He gasps dramatically. “You can’t do that! You’ll orphan my son!”

“He’s _not your goddamn fucking son-“_

“Geralt!” Amber eyes turn to him, wide and alarmed and thoroughly confused. “Tell her she can’t do that!”

“I- I uh…”

“Yen,” Triss says softly. “Don’t run him over. You’ll get blood all over your car. And he’s already so annoying right now, imagine how much more annoying he’ll be once he starts haunting your _car_.”

Yen makes a face. “I don’t care. I’ll sell it.”

“Yen, no one wants a car that’s haunted by him.”

“I’m gonna pretend not to be offended by that,” Jaskier mutters. Geralt snorts.

Yennefer sighs, shoulder slumping slightly. “You’re right. And it’ll be a bloody nightmare to get rid of his corpse, as well.”

“Just dump it beyond the treeline. Nekkers will take care of it,” Geralt deadpans and Jaskier gasps.

“Geralt! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I’m just saying.”

He clenches his jaw, rolling his eyes so hard it hurts. “You guys are the worst. I’m tired, I’m going home.” He turns to the witcher. “Thank you for taking care of Jeremy for the night, darling. See you.”

The bell rings as he opens and closes the door to the Denny’s, his car beeping when he unlocks it. He loads Jeremy into the passenger seat where the ghoul resumes his napping, and climbs into the driver’s side of the car.

He looks up to see Geralt standing right outside the door to the diner, amber eyes reflecting the light from Jaskier’s car.

Jaskier smiles softly, raising one hand in a quick wave before he buckles his seatbelt and peels out of the parking lot.

\---

_Geralt, I love you, but I need you to not talk right now, I am having several revelations._

He shoots up in bed two hours later, his own words ringing through his head as he only now realizes what he said.

_Fuck._

\---

For the first time in ten years, the house is completely and thoroughly clean.

Jaskier looks at the clock as he dumps the dirty sponge into the bin. Two in the afternoon. He’s spent the last five hours in a panic-induced cleaning frenzy, brought on by the realization that he did, in fact, accidentally say the L-word to Geralt.

He yawns, rubbing at his eyes, blinking away the pain the soap residue on his fingers causes as his mind slowly starts to drift.

He really hopes Geralt didn’t hear it – or at least, didn’t fully register it. After all, he’s probably still coming to terms with the fact that loving men isn’t a horrible sin that’ll condemn him to an eternity of hellfire. And even _if_ he’s come to terms with that, he doesn’t love Jaskier back, that much is clear.

At the end of the day, Geralt is still an immortal witcher with the looks of a demigod and the personality of a teddy bear, and Jaskier is…

Well, Jaskier is Jaskier.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a hand tugging at his shirt, and he looks down to see Jeremy pouting up at him. He coos softly, gathering his boy in his arms, holding him close.

“Oh, my darling boy, did tata not pay enough attention to you? I’m so sorry.” The whiff of a scent catches in his nose and he nearly gags. “Oh, dear fucking God, I definitely have to change your diaper.”

Twenty minutes and a lot more muttered curses later, and he’s dumping the soiled diaper into the bin, contemplating bringing it outside and setting it on fire when he realizes that there’s dirt and leaves stuck on Jeremy’s onesie.

And he’s all out of onesies. _Bloody hell._

He sighs, taking a blanket out of the wardrobe in his parents’ bedroom as Jeremy plays with his own feet, wrapping it around his boy. He crouches down in front of the ghoul, arms folded on his knees.

“Jeremy. There’s a, uh… _situation._ I’m gonna have to go to Walmart. I’ll go outside real quick and call Geralt and he’ll keep you company. Is that alright?”

Jeremy chews on his big toe.

“Great. I’ll be right back.”

He quickly deposits Jeremy in his childhood bedroom, making sure there aren’t any sharp objects around before he closes the door behind him, quickly heading outside.

He stands at the treeline, staring into the darkness. “Geralt!” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Geralt! I need your help!”

No response comes. But then again, does one ever?

He should probably get Geralt a phone at Walmart. At least then he won’t have to stand at the edge of the forest shouting into the woods like some lunatic.

“Geralt!” he shouts again. No response comes, once again. He didn’t expect one, but still, worry starts to gnaw at his stomach. Usually, Geralt has appeared already, emerging from the darkness like some guardian angel who can babysit the ghoul for a few hours.

But he’s not here.

Part of him whispers in the back of his mind that Geralt did, indeed, hear him use the L-word, and that it disgusted him so much it scared him away for good. Another part of him tells that annoying, insecure part to shut the fuck up.

It doesn’t.

“Geralt! Please! I need your help.”

He waits. And waits. And waits. And waits.

After ten minutes, Geralt isn’t there. That annoying, insecure part of him has gotten louder.

He shouldn’t have used the L-word.

\---

“Okay, change of plans, żabko. You’re going with tata to the store! Doesn’t that sound like fun? It does sound like fun to me, especially since I have no idea how to hide you from the other shoppers and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave you alone in the car. Because for some reason, Geralt hasn’t shown up and maybe it has something to do with tata using the L-word last night, but let’s not think about that too much, shall we?”

There’s a slightly manic grin plastered on his face as he talks, hands busying themselves with huddling Jeremy in the blanket more tightly. Eventually, he deems the effort not worth it and simply picks the ghoul up, carrying him to the car. He’ll fix the blanket when he gets to the store.

Oh, dear fucking God, what has he gotten himself into?

The drive to the Walmart is long and quiet, and he avoids looking to the side to see if anyone’s noticed Jeremy with his face pressed to the window. He doesn’t cause an accident, so it doesn’t seem like anyone has.

Once they’ve parked, he gets out the car, opening the passenger side door and crouching down on the asphalt, extending his arms. Jeremy gets the message and wraps his limbs around Jaskier, burying his face into his shoulder.

Jaskier then takes the blanket and wraps it around both himself and his froggie, making sure every inch of him is covered. He finishes by tying a knot with the corners in front of him – silently blessing all his lucky stars that the blanket he brought with him is big enough.

He softly kisses the top of his żabko’s head, before he pulls the blanket over it.

“We’re off, then,” he mutters to no one in particular.

\---

The store is quiet, save from the echoes of the other people that are browsing the shelves somewhere else, and the quiet music that plays through the speakers. Jaskier hums along to it, smiling to himself as Jeremy croons happily against his chest. He hums a little louder.

He makes a short stop at the snack isle, loading half his cart full with bags of chips and bars of chocolate. Being a single dad is a hard job. He deserves it.

Next up are the veggies and fruits, from which he gets a reasonable amount – enough to last them about a week. He’d get more, but he doesn’t want to risk it starting to rot or mould. Besides, his fridge isn’t large enough to fit that much food.

He gets more childproof locks, just in case.

It’s in the bread aisle when things go sideways.

He freezes in the middle of the aisle, hands tightening around his cart, when an elderly woman turns the corner. He contemplates turning around and pretending he’s not running away for a second before she spots him and smiles at him. He politely smiles back.

Her eyes drift down to the bundle tied to his front. Her smile grows wider.

Jaskier’s heart sinks to his kneecaps. It’s too late to turn back now.

She quickly approaches the pair of them, stopping right next to him, her watery eyes still glued to Jeremy, who’s starting to stir, probably sensing how tense Jaskier is. On any other day, Jaskier would’ve loved this woman with all his heart, but right now, anger starts to seep into his bloodstream.

_Goddammit, lady, couldn’t you have stayed at the nursing home, like, an hour longer?_

“Oh!” she croons, smiling up at Jaskier. “How lovely! It’s not often you see fathers doing the shopping. Back in my day, only the mothers did it, but I suppose things have changed, have they not?”

He smiles tightly, nodding once.

“Is it because the mother is at work? You see more and more of that these days, as well-“

“Ah, well,” he stammers, trying and failing to come up with a convincing lie, hand scratching the back of his neck, “you see, there is… no mother.”

The lady’s face falls, eyes filling with pity and pure adoration and _oh fuck, what has he done?_

“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Well, uh… she… died. Shortly after the… adoption.”

“Oh my, how terrible.” Jeremy croons softly and the lady’s face lights up. Slowly, she lifts her hand towards the bundle, and time slows to a crawl. He tries to move, he really does, he tries with all his might to get his arm to obey him so he can bat her hand away, his legs so that he can step back.

But all is for naught.

She pulls the blanket back.

She gasps, taking a step back, eyes wide and confused and _horrified,_ as she looks from Jaskier to the ghoul against his chest, mouth opening and closing uselessly. “Wh… what’s wrong with him? Why does he look like that?”

His brain short-circuits. He throws the first thing out there his mouth can think of. “Ah, well, you see… he’s… from Europe.”

He tugs the blanket back over Jeremy’s head and prays to all the gods out there that this lady suffers from that need old people tend to have to be unnecessarily polite all the time.

Praise the fucking gods, she does.

She gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course.” She doesn’t inquire further. She hurries away.

He keeps going.

In the clothes section, he gets a few more onesies for Jeremy – a few meaning about thirty of them. He has the money and he doesn’t have the patience to have to go to Walmart again anytime soon or to do laundry more than once a week. So thirty it is.

And he absolutely does _not_ squeal in delight when he finds out there are matching adult onesies, of which he loads about ten into the cart.

And if five of those adult onesies are in a size that’s way too big for him, then that’s nobody’s business but his own. And Walmart’s, of course.

He mentally blesses past him for saving all that extra money he got from his night shifts at Denny’s instead of buying a car that’s a little less rickety, when he sees the receipt the cashier hands him.

\---

The first things he does when he gets home are hoisting Jeremy into a new onesie, putting him on the couch, and turning on the tv.

Then, and only then, does he start taking the groceries out of the car. Or at least, he tries to.

On his way to the driveway, his foot hits something small and hard right in front of his door, and he bends down to pick it up, turning it over and over in his hands. It’s wrapped in leaves, for some reason, that are held together by a short length of brown, coarse rope.

He unties the knot at the top of it, letting the leaves fall open.

It’s a gem. Round, though the edges are jagged, as if it’s been plucked straight out of the ground and simply cleaned off. The deep red colour of it catches the afternoon sunlight, making the gem shine in his hand as he lays it on his palm – and God, it’s big, too. About half the size of his palm.

_How much is this thing even worth?_

All Jaskier knows for sure is who left it on his doorstep while he was gone.

_Geralt._

He looks at the leaves in his other hand again, noticing something crumpled and white between them. He plucks it out with his fingers, thumbing at the piece of paper, heart beating in his throat as he tries to keep his breathing even.

Part of him hopes that the small letter Geralt sent him with the gem contains three simple words, one of which is the L-word. Another part of him tells it to shut the fuck up and not get his hopes up.

The first part wins.

He opens the piece of paper, finding messy, scrawled handwriting inside. He squints at it, and it takes him a few seconds to decipher what it says.

_‘I’m sorry. Goodbye.’_

His heart thuds in his ears. His hands shake. A deep red, primal anger floods his chest, blood roaring in his ears as his vision turns blurry.

He closes his fist around the gem.

He throws it through the windshield of his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say fluff? I meant angst, actually.
> 
> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan.
> 
> And again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment! Because believe it or not, but 1 comment = 1 old lady who loses the politeness battle and minds her own business when she sees a ghoul.


	11. Heavy Stones Fear No Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a bit late. Exams have been kicking my ass :(. Merry crisis, though!
> 
> Trigger warning for mild gore and blood!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

The price for a new windshield isn’t insignificant and for a few moments, Jaskier considers selling the gem Geralt gave him and using that money to pay the repairman just to spite the witcher. He decides against it, though, and stuffs the thing into the back of the drawer of his nightstand instead, along with the quartz Geralt gave him a while ago.

One day passes. Two days pass.

He takes Jeremy to work. Barely anyone shows up at the Denny’s these days anyways and if someone does come in… well, he’s gotten better at lying. _Oh, Jeremy? He’s recovering from an illness. My son? He’s got a congenital thing, something with a long name I can’t pronounce. Oh, him? He’s from Europe._ Strange how that last one always works as well as the others.

His eyes keep drifting to the treeline but he always tears them away again whenever he catches himself looking. It shouldn’t hurt this much, it really shouldn’t. Geralt was just a friend – not even a very close friend – that’s all.

Still, it hurts.

One week passes. Two weeks pass.

He falls into some sort of routine as summer approaches, the days growing longer and hotter and soon he doesn’t have to drive through the dark to get to work. Jeremy grows and grows, his stomach a seemingly bottomless pit and his mind ever curious as Jaskier lets him out into the garden more and more often.

On those days, he sits on the steps that lead to the house, watching as Jeremy plays with a ball in the tall grass or chases butterflies and bumblebees, the ghoul sneezing as he smells the flowers that grow in the field. On those days, Jaskier decidedly does not look at the treeline and consciously basks in the sunlight.

Three weeks pass. Four weeks pass.

It’s getting too warm for onesies and Jaskier goes to Walmart again to get some shorts, tank tops and swimming trunks for Jeremy and an inflatable kiddie pool. This summer’s probably gonna be a warm one and they’ll need ways to cool down. He stuffs the onesies in the back of his closet, his hand lingering on the price tags that haven’t even been removed from the five largest ones yet.

He ignores the sharp pang in his chest and moves on.

The days grow longer. The sun starts to rise every morning when he heads home as well. He spends his days in the sunshine and most of the time, he doesn’t need to remind himself to ignore the shadows under the trees anymore.

A month passes. Two months pass.

Summer makes its entrance hot and fast, a sweltering heat blanketing over the lazy town as the sun beats down on the houses mercilessly. He doesn’t spend his afternoons outside anymore and if he has no other choice but to leave the door – to hang out the laundry, to go to the store, to get the mail – he makes sure he’s got sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin. He starts to longingly think back to that night he spent lying on the parking lot of the Denny’s, to the cold that had chilled him to the bone.

It’s one of the only times he thinks about Geralt, these days.

On a whim, he buys a guitar from Walmart. In the evening, he lets Jeremy into the kiddie pool, sitting in the grass with an iced tea and the instrument, trying to figure out how the chords work. It’s the most fun he’s had in ages.

He forgets about the gems stuffed in the back of his drawers until he’s looking for his sunglasses one day and stumbles upon them. He pushes them to the side. The sight of them doesn’t hurt anymore. Not as much, at least.

The light freckles on his arms and neck become visible as summer progresses. He plays in the kiddie pool with Jeremy. He learns how to strum the guitar properly. He sings along to the radio as he drives to work with the windows down. He paints his parents’ old bedroom a bright yellow, covering the light grey and making the room his own at last. He laughs at the shitty comedies on tv. He gets a new toaster and burns his bread the first six times. He buys tacky Hawaii shirts and leaves them half-unbuttoned.

The treeline is but a distant shadow at the edge of his mind.

Sometimes he dreams of golden eyes.

Summer winds to a slow and peaceful end, the days growing shorter ever so slightly and the heat not so suffocating anymore. The flowers in the grass bloom still and the afternoons are warm and comfortable, but a week into September, Jaskier wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes he needs a blanket, the gentle cold that’s drifted in through the open window nipping at his skin.

When he drives home from work in the morning, the sky doesn’t colour red anymore.

The flowers in the field wither and shrink into the ground, the leaves on the trees gain a yellow edge. He goes to bring in the laundry one day, basket on his hip, and sees a leaf from the tree next to the house drift to the ground. It grows colder and colder. He starts to long for the summer days again when he drives to work in the dark. He belts along to the ballads on the radio nonetheless.

Jeremy is almost getting too big for Jaskier to pick up now – though that doesn’t stop his boy from clambering all over him anyways. He silently starts to dread the day he can’t lift up the ghoul anymore. The thought makes something sharp and painful shoot through his chest and for just a second, the pain reminds him of the hurt Geralt caused by leaving.

And then he forgets again.

Autumn makes its entrance quietly and softly. The leaves grow yellow and red and orange, the shadows of the treeline hidden behind the rain of colour that drifts down to the forest floor. One day he walks towards it, wicker basket around his arm, to collect mushrooms. It sets his teeth on edge the first half hour, being so close to it, but after a while it gets easier to ignore the shadows.

Jeremy doesn’t like mushrooms, turns out. Jaskier doesn’t bother collecting them from the treeline anymore after that.

Sometimes it rains. Big, heavy buckets of it pouring from the sky and he’ll don his yellow raincoat, helping Jeremy into his afterwards. He’ll take the ghoul outside to splash in the puddles and play in the rain, chasing the leaves through the empty streets of Dewbury. On those days, the town is so dark he doesn’t even notice the shadows beyond the treeline anymore.

The red leaves under his feet remind him of the gem Geralt gave him, the one used to say goodbye. The thought of it doesn’t hurt him anymore, not like it once did, at least. It stays stuffed in the back of his nightstand drawer most of the time.

Sometimes, though, he’ll take it out in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. He’ll twirl it between his fingers, watching the blood red gem catch the light filtering in through the curtains. During those quiet, lonesome hours, he’ll remember Geralt, remember white hair and golden eyes and scarred hands brushing against his as they made dinner together. He’ll remember the first time he saw Geralt – in the middle of the night, walking into the Denny’s with two large swords and a terrifying scowl on his face – and he’ll remember the last time he saw Geralt – in the middle of the night, right outside the Denny’s with eyes unreadable yet so, so terribly sad.

He remembers telling Geralt he loved him, sometimes. He wonders if he meant it, back then, and supposes that he did. He wonders if he still does. Some nights he supposes he does, other nights he supposes he doesn’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The gem will always return to the back of the drawer and Jaskier will always turn to his other side and fall asleep.

In his dreams, Geralt will always disappear beyond the treeline.

In the morning, he will always forget again.

By November, the trees are bare and the nights have grown cold. The grass is white and crisp beneath his feet as he goes to fetch his mail in the morning. He pulls the onesies out of the wardrobe and only remembers the five biggest ones when price tags brush against his fingers. He removes them and washes the onesies along with the rest, just in case.

He doesn’t really know why he washes them. He doesn’t know why he’d ever need them. He supposes it doesn’t matter. He washes and folds them and stuffs them back into the closet. He remembers Geralt.

With a pang of guilt, he realizes he hasn’t thought of him in days. Once again, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Geralt made his choice and they both have to live with it now.

He briefly wonders how Geralt is. It’s been months. He hopes he’s alive and hopes he’s safe and happy with the decision he made.

He forgets again after that.

He always forgets again.

\---

He knows something’s wrong when Jeremy shifts nervously next to him, chirping as he stretches his neck, looking in the direction of the house.

“What is it, żabko?” he asks his boy, keeping one eye on the ghoul and the other on the road, hands clenching around the steering wheel. “What do you see?”

Jeremy, of course, doesn’t answer and only fidgets some more. Jaskier takes a deep breath and looks at the road again, turning onto the driveway as usual a few seconds later.

At first, nothing seems out of the ordinary. The streetlamps cast the house in a soft, yellow light. The windows are dark, the walls seem to be intact and there’s no one standing outside. He frowns to himself. _Strange._

But then his eyes are drawn to the front doorstep as a large shadows shifts. Jaskier’s breath catches in his lungs, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck despite the cold weather, heart hammering in his throat.

There’s something there, something huddled on the ground at his front door. It shifts again and turns its head and suddenly, yellow eyes catch the light of the headlamps of the car, reflecting it back at him.

His hands spur into action, quickly unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door of his car. His feet won’t cooperate just yet, though, and he has to fight not to stumble over them as he hurries out into the cold morning air, taking a few hesitant steps towards the front door.

“Geralt?” he breathes out, and suddenly everything slams back into his mind at the sight of familiar, golden eyes. _The nights spent together, the days taking care of Jeremy, the soft touches and secret moments and shared memories. The joy, the happiness, the longing, the anger, the pain, the hurt._

He takes a shaky breath as Geralt grunts softly, moving as if to push himself upright before slumping back down, falling on the cement with a painful-sounding _thud._

_I loved you,_ his mind wants to say, _I missed you and I loved you then and I think I might love you still._

“What the fuck are you doing here?” his mouth says, an angry edge to his voice.

Yellow eyes blink open and look at him before rolling into the back of Geralt’s head, the shadow of him going still.

He curses under his breath, quickly fetching Jeremy from the car and walking to the front door. He tries not to look at Geralt too long as he unlocks the door, tries not to dwell on the fact that the witcher isn’t moving and that Jaskier can’t hear him breathe.

He rushes inside, putting Jeremy on the couch and turning on the tv before hurrying outside again.

His knees crack painfully as he falls down next to Geralt, unsure hands ghosting over the still form, feeling stray threads of his black cloak brush against his skin. Eventually, one settles on a broad shoulder, the other cupping Geralt’s cheek softly.

He looks like hell. He’s got bags under his eyes, his hair is caked together with mud and things Jaskier can’t bring himself to identify, lest he throws up right here and now. Geralt’s skin is pale and cold and clammy despite the cold autumn air, a pallid quality to it that has Jaskier worrying for the witcher’s health.

“Geralt?” he whispers, shaking him softly. “Geralt, wake up.”

Geralt doesn’t wake up.

He curses again, grunting softly as he pushes Geralt’s shoulder, turning the witcher onto his back. Geralt’s cloak falls down his sides in pools of black, revealing the armour that’s underneath.

It’s dark outside, but in the soft light of the streetlamp, Jaskier can see that Geralt’s armour is in tatters. There’s scratches ripping through the upper layer of the leather, pieces of the edges and corners chipped and worn off, hell, Jaskier’s sure he can even see a _dent,_ here or there.

But there’s one thing that worries him more than the worn-down armour and Geralt’s unconsciousness: the large pool of darkness that’s spreading out underneath the witcher.

Jaskier had thought it Geralt’s cloak as first, but cloaks don’t expand like this and cloaks – he dips his finger in it tentatively – aren’t wet and don’t smell of copper and death.

He gasps softly, moving until he’s crouching by Geralt’s head, holding the door open with his back. He hooks his hands under Geralt’s armpits, grunting as he manages to hoist the witcher half up, and he starts walking backwards, the front door falling shut a second after Geralt’s feet have passed through it.

And in the bright light of the hallway, Jaskier can see it clearly, the red trail that Geralt leaves in his wake, bleeding profusely as Jaskier slowly drags him to the kitchen.

Somehow, he manages to round the corner, collapsing when Geralt’s feet have passed through the kitchen door, panting as he takes a second to lean back against the cabinet door. Geralt’s still unconscious, but when he focuses on it, Jaskier can see the shallow rise and fall of his chest and he nearly sobs in relief at the realization that Geralt’s alive.

He sits there for a second before he pushes himself into motion again, crawling to the kitchen door on his hands and knees and pushing it shut. The last thing he needs is Jeremy witnessing any of this.

Then, he crawls back to Geralt, shaking the witcher’s shoulder with one hand while fumbling with the clasp of his cloak with the other.

“Hey,” he says, softly slapping Geralt’s cheek a few times. “Wake up, Geralt. I can’t have you bleeding out on my kitchen floor like this.” He laughs, a maniacal edge to it. “At least buy me dinner first, big boy.”

He gives up on trying to open the cloak and reaches up to grab a pair of scissors from the drawer, crudely cutting through the fabric. He pushes it aside, hands ghosting over Geralt’s armour, not sure where to begin. He could cut through the leather straps, but he’d need different scissors for that – the heavy, silver ones he inherited from his mother.

He curses again, scrambling onto his feet and dashing out of the kitchen. There are wet patches on his knees and he’s pretty sure there’s blood dripping into his shoes, but he doesn’t pay any attention to it as he bolts for his bedroom, quickly rifling through the junk-drawer of his nightstand, pushing aside two gems before his fingers close around the scissors.

He shouts in triumph and bolts again, his footsteps thundering down the stairs, the kitchen door slamming shut behind him. His knees scream out their displeasure as he falls down next to Geralt again.

“Hey, hey, I’m back. Just had to get the scissors my mama got me. They’re silver because she had an iron allergy, you know, she would get this awful rash whenever she touched the stuff. I inherited that from her, actually-“

He keeps on babbling as he cuts the straps of Geralt’s armour, ripping the pieces away and groaning in annoyance when yet another strap keeps them in place somewhere else. A glass topples of the edge of the table and shatters noisily on the tiles when Geralt’s breastplate hits the table leg. The cabinet doors thud loudly as arm pieces – Jaskier doesn’t know what the fuck they’re called and doesn’t bother with digging through his memory – land against them.

Gold eyes crack open a sliver, squinting up at him and he laughs in relief and panic.

“Hi! Geralt, good to know you’re with us. You’ve made a right mess of my house and you’re gonna have to pay me a lot of money to compensate for all the chemicals I’m gonna have to buy to get the stains out of the hallway floor-“

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, voice cracking and groaning under the strain of the word.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He laughs again, panicked even in his own ears. “Can’t believe you remember me after you took off and ignored me for months. It’s okay, though, no hard feelings, I would ignore me too. Real quick- where are you bleeding? Cause you’re dying and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be left with a bloody witcher body to dispose of-“

“Back.”

“Oh, okay,” he breathes, “good to know.”

He pushes at Geralt’s shoulder and – with a little help from the witcher himself – he manages to turn him onto his stomach. He tears the cloak away and gasps softly when he sees the mess of claw marks that adorns Geralt’s back, the wounds sluggishly leaking rivulets of blood down the pale expanse of scarred skin.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he cuts away the shreds of the back plate of the armour, “fuck fuck _fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”_

“Jaskier,” Geralt whines softly, before his shoulders relax, hands going limp by his sides as he loses consciousness again.

Jaskier lets out a strangled sob, slamming open the cabinet door to his left, fishing out the first aid kit from beneath the sink. He opens it with shaky hands as tears start to drip down his cheeks, panic setting in when he sees the sparse contents of the box.

Some gauze. A tiny roll of bandages. Bandaids. A few other bits and pieces.

Nothing useful.

“Fuck!” he shouts, dropping the thing on the floor with a loud clatter, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as he sobs, rocking back and forth gently as blood soaks into his socks. “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck _fuckfuck_ -”

He lowers his hands abruptly, clenching them around his thighs as he takes a deep breath. He looks at the ceiling for a second before wiping the tears away with his sleeves and getting up.

His feet slap on the steps of the stairs as he hurries his way back to his bedroom. His knees curse and yell at him when he drops down in front of his wardrobe, fishing around in the bottom of it until he’s found his mother’s old sewing set. They’re not meant for suturing wounds and they’re definitely not sterilized, but Jaskier has no other option – besides letting Geralt bleed to death – and the witcher is a big boy who can fight infections by himself, surely, so he takes it along with a few old shirts.

He rushes his way down the stairs and this time his knees don’t even bother getting angry with him as he finds his way back to Geralt’s side.

Trembling fingers manage to thread a needle and he lowers the tip of it to a wound that starts at Geralt’s left shoulder blade, stretching all the way to his right shoulder. And it’s in that minute that Jaskier has no clue how to sew.

The witcher stirs again and Jaskier is shaken out of his half-second reverie. “Geralt,” he says, clamping his hand around his upper arm. “Geralt, how the fuck do I sew?”

Geralt grunts and shifts a little before resigning himself to his fate and relaxing on the kitchen floor. “I’ll talk you through it,” he mumbles into the tiles. “You’ve got a needle and thread?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, voice shaking as he holds up the needle, even though Geralt can’t see it.

“You’ve got tweezers?”

He rummages through the box a bit and finds nothing. “Wait, hold on,” he mutters, before pulling the first aid box towards himself, exclaiming his triumph as he does, in fact, find tweezers.

“Push the needle through the skin, and pull out on the other side of the wound.”

Jaskier nods quickly, hand shaking slightly as he pushes the tip of the needle through the upper layer of Geralt’s skin, pushing the edges of the wound together with the other hand. He uses the tweezers afterwards to pull the needle all the way through on the other side of the wound, grimacing as the thread moves through Geralt’s skin.

“Now what? I’ve left only an inch of thread on the other side.”

“Good. Loop the long side of the thread around the tweezers.”

He bites on the tip of his tongue as he does as he’s told. “Yeah.”

“Grab the short end of the thread with the tweezers and pull the loop off until it’s a knot on the wound. Do it two more times, then snip the thread of and make sure the knot’s not on the wound.”

It takes him a few minutes to get it right but when he’s done he nods again. “Done.”

“Now do it with the rest of the wound.” And then Geralt passes out again.

Jaskier nods shakily, pressing one of the old shirts against the two wounds that cross Geralt’s back a little bit lower before he sets himself to the task of suturing all three of them.

It takes him ages – it feels like an eternity, though he’s sure it can’t be more than an hour, the stitching going quite fast once he’s got the hang of it. But eventually, he’s done and he sits back on his haunches to admire his work before he sets himself to the task of ripping up the old shirts. He sticks the strips to Geralt’s back with the medical tape he found at the bottom of the first aid kit.

He puts an extra layer of shirt strips on top just in case.

Afterwards, he drags Geralt into a seating position, using a towel and water to clean off the worst of the blood. The trousers are absolutely saturated with the stuff and unsalvageable, so Jaskier cuts them off of Geralt as well.

He quickly dashes upstairs to grab one of the onesies and somehow manages to hoist Geralt into them. Then, he quickly cleans the kitchen and hallway floor, before hooking his elbows under Geralt’s armpits and dragging him to the living room, managing to get the witcher on the couch with great difficulty.

Jeremy is standing on the living room table as Jaskier does so, staring at the scene with wide eyes. Jaskier puts him to bed when he’s done.

It’s already well past noon by now, but for some reason, he doesn’t feel hungry. He’s just tired.

But he can’t sleep, he needs to look after Geralt, needs to make sure he doesn’t accidentally die anyways or choke on his own spit or something. So he puts a blanket over the witcher and settles on the floor against the side of the couch, the back of his head against Geralt’s ribs, the witcher’s heartbeat thumping against Jaskier’s skin every so often.

He notices that Geralt’s arm has fallen over the side of the couch. He briefly considers putting it back under the blanket, but eventually decides against it, lifting his hand to twine their fingers together instead.

Then, he stares at the wall and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan!
> 
> Again, please don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment because believe it or not, but 1 comment = 1 chemical for Jaskier to clean his floor with.


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